So this has been sitting around in my computer for quite some time now, and I figured I might as well just upload it. Lyrics from "Leaves, Trees, Forest" by Dan Mangan.

1

in my heart is a ghost
and he drinks and he smokes and he keeps me awake
and all through the night my heart shakes

Exhale. Smoke puffs in the air before him, taking the shape of a skull before fading. The lab is dark except for the glow of the monitor, which illuminates the empty chair in front of it.

Inhale. The cigarette leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and not for the first time he tells himself he should probably quit. He takes it from his lips and grinds it out on the cold floor next to him.

His back is beginning to ache in this corner, but he can't bring himself to move. Moving means thinking. Means doing more than just existing. When the sun comes up, he'll move. He'll get to his feet, which will lead to walking, which will lead him out the door and to class, and then he'll teach.

But right now there is just the corner, and the struggle to exist without his mind constantly running in circles, slowly spinning downwards. To have just a few moments of peace and quiet.

He lights another cigarette.

2

so i live alone
drink beer by the phone and it keeps me alive
i know there is hope, but i can't look for it

He sits straddling his rolling chair. There's something off, but he can't put his finger on it. Something's changed. What was it? A nagging feeling in the back of his head. He's forgetting something. Something important.

There wasn't class today, was there? No, it's Saturday.

Is it?

A click. He looks up. There's someone in the doorway, silhouetted by the light outside his darkened room. He knows that silhouette. Was that what he was supposed to remember?

"There you are," says the figure, and he knows the voice. It's warm and golden, like dandelions, or the sun after a storm.

He spins slowly in the chair. "Where?" he asks.

A hand is placed lightly on his shoulder, stopping his rotation. "I made dinner," says the warm voice.

But no one ever makes dinner. There isn't anyone around to do so. It's just him and his microwave meals. Was that what he was forgetting?

Finally, he tries to see the face in front of him, but it's too dark. The lamps are off, or are they? Maybe he can't tell the difference anymore. She has light, and he doesn't. He remembers that, at least.

3

and i ride in the lane
in the lane is a wind and it keeps me sane
in my head is a god but i can't speak for it

The tapping has become a rhythm. He doesn't even know what he's typing anymore, but the clacking of the keyboard mesmerizes him. Tippity-tap, clickety-clack, ratta-tat-tat. Maybe if he set up a metronome beside the computer they'd fall into time. He'd test the theory, but he doesn't have a metronome and if he stops he'll never pick up the beat again.

There's a click that doesn't come from the keys and it shoots through his head, bringing his fingers to a halt. He swivels his chair around. Marie is standing in the open doorway, her hands on her hips.

"You've been locked up in here all day," she says.

He tilts his head back to look at the monitor. The screen is just a jumble of numbers and letters. Nothing useful. He'd been hoping that maybe something subconscious would come out of it. "Ah," he says. "Do you have a metronome?"

"A…" She pauses. "No."

"Shame."

"We could go get one," she suggests.

He pulls his legs up onto the chair and wraps his arms around them. "Would you?"

She rolls her eye. "I said we, Franken."

"Oh. Never mind, then."

With a sigh, she crosses the room to him. "You need to go outside."

"No," he says.

"Don't be a child."

He sticks his tongue out at her.

Her lips tug into a small smile, hard as she tries to be exasperated with him. "We're going outside," she says.

He heaves a sigh. "If we must." But he remains motionless.

She grabs the back of his chair and begins to wheel him out. He makes no protest, grabbing onto the seat as they navigate thresholds so he doesn't fall off. At last, they make it outside. It's fall, and the leaves are slowly turning. A chilly breeze brushes past them, and he looks up at her. Her face is turned towards the warm sun, and the wind tugs at her hair, blowing it across her face. But it's not like in the movies, where the breeze flows through her golden locks – it gets caught in her lips and she splutters, and as she tries to comb it back into place with her fingers, a second gust comes along and makes it worse. She finally gets it back under control, then looks over at him and giggles, embarrassed. He knows how much effort she puts into her appearance, trying to find the right guy, and so he figures he's probably not the right guy because he likes her better when she's not perfect.

The wind blows again, and somehow she brings him peace as she cries out and tries to get her hair under control, finally grabbing his chair and dragging him back into the lab, saying, "Outside is overrated anyway."

Unexpectedly, he finds himself laughing as he bumps over the threshold, and it is a breath of air fresher than the crisp autumn breeze.