Michael is correct; Wolfgang, when they get absorbed in a certain task or another, will forget to eat, or sleep, or brush their hair, or any number of obvious self-care activities the body generally requires to function. It's good they live in the same building they work out of, then. People walk in and interrupt them and remind them there's a world outside of their head, one where you have to eat, and more than ramen noodles every other day at that.
It's been busy for Wolfgang the entire holiday season so far; plenty of people have come in needing something hidden or under control so they can go home and visit their families for Christmas. Which is great for Wolfgang, they have enough money for once that they're not making noises about getting a second job. Christmas Day, they expected it to be slow, but stayed open anyway just in case anyone had an emergency, or came in last minute, but it's been really slow. Not a single person coming in. But that's good, right?
With nothing else to do, they've started working on other projects. They hauled all their supplies out from the cabinet space they usually keep it in, underneath the displays holding crystals and charms and small metal figures, wood carvings, slips of paper, tiny books — things that look like a witch would make, things where half the power is the holder's belief that it's magic. Hidden under that are their real tools.
Wolfgang was a child when they learned magic, and a child's tools were what they had on hand to learn with, and it's children's tools they turn to now as an adult, relearning how to plumb the depths of their power (and starting to worry that there may not be a bottom —)
Today it's Legos, one of the most versatile tools available. They brought out two big boxes full of miscellaneous bricks, some intended as parts of sets, others just plain generic bricks with any number of potential uses. Wolfgang is sitting on the floor in the dark, an unnatural darkness, with a green mat in front of them with a half-finished structure with ragged towers climbing upwards like fists. Hanging around their head, drifting through the air like dust motes, there are more bricks, each one glowing brightly in the dark like miniature stars. Sitting next to them is a cloud, an actual honest-to-god cloud, the big fluffy kind like you'd see in an illustration in a children's book, and it, too, is glowing, like it's being lit from underneath by an unseen moon. Every now and then Wolfgang reaches over and pulls out a long white thread from it, bright and fragile. The points of light in the room cast Wolfgang's shadow deeply against a dark wall, elongated until their head touches the ceiling.
They look up when he walks in, their eyes directly meeting his. A moment passes. Then they perk up. "You brought food?"
As if, you know, all the rest of that isn't happening.