Log: Damian/Misha
His door was unlocked. The security protocols that had been put in place were bypassed by rotating passwords and a biometric scan (sometimes of the eye, sometimes of the hand). The camera the size of a pinhead, installed in the intricate framework of an ancient portrait of a Wainright of generations past, continued to record the corridor near Damian's room with its lens wide and fish-eye.—The interior of the room was much less complicated, but it always was. It was just a touch too warm inside. Near the window, upon the easel, was a sketchbook propped up. It bore a sketch watercolored earlier. Per usual, the lights were a low, oily yellow and the hearth threw familiar shadows from its grate. Upon the mantle was an ornate Mabkhara, from which the rich scent of burning Bakhoor emanated. Oud, resin, and ambergris dominated the small space, mingling with cigarette smoke. From the open window, a sliver of fresh air attempted to wedge itself under the skin of the incense.
Damian sat upon his bed, facing the room, with his legs crossed beneath him. Beneath his hoodie, he wore a blue-on-blue button-up, along with his graying black jeans. He waited for Misha to join him, and, as he did so, he touched at the teeth of emotions he felt inside of him. He did not know what many of them were (and he disliked all of them). But, they felt distant, so he did not need to immediately purge himself of them with another line of morphine. Even still, the man touched the orange pill bottles before him. Idly, he told his cellular phone to resume playing the song he had had on before he heard the overwhelming wash of fiddle from outside. The music resumed. It drowned out the sound of white pills tumbling over each other.