The smells of Armor-All and WD-40 intermingle in his shirt, as he has spent the sunlight wiping through his elements (plastic, metal, wood) in an attempt to sanctify the moist, muddy and sunlit profanity that is his sanctuary. The fumes mix into the air he has been breathing the whole time, giving him hallucinations of a timeless day, where one tells by feel whether or not it is the opportune moment to stop something and begin another; nothing tells him to stop, so he continues, each little rearrangement in the room becoming more and more therapeutic. He has, as the Easterners would like to call it, reached a state of void: no other thoughts bother him save the one right in front of him–first purple, then red, then down an autochthonous, now deceptive rainbow. This work is almost play, and as such, he delights in it, intoxicated by the colors and chemicals all around, aesthesizing him.
Little by little, however, as the void begins to wear thin, reality begins to sink in once again, the way it always does right before our stories end. Thoughts of reality begin to creep in alongside:
The moon is at its peak when it dawns on him that he has not started work.