Aristotle feels himself sinking, inklings of consciousness wavering in and out of his mind, a thin skull doing nothing to trap the will to move. He feels nothing, at the same time, a distinctive numbness which blanketed his entire body. The youth imagined that he was floating in midair, surrounded by the inky darkness of the midnight; he was in outer space, enveloped in an ogling nothingness that left him utterly lost. The bitter frozenness of the final frontier covered him head to toe, he could faintly feel the condensed mist of his breath against his face, the frost dutifully collecting on his whiskers.
Aristotle was alone. He floated, alone, amongst twinkling stars and chill without snow or ice. The blankness of everything around him was unseen through his closed eyes; his eyelids felt as though they were being weighed down by blocks of cement, covered in shadows of his lackluster sleep schedule. He floated in an abyss of darkness and cold.
Alone? There was something, he sensed it. A noise? Perhaps, a feeling? A calling. Something called at him, willed him into submission, and it was in an abrupt jolt that Aristotle woke up, seafoam eyes wide and wild.
He was in camp. Somewhere amidst the cabins and frost was the tabby, slumped over on the ground. Shifting uncomfortably, he blinked his dry, tired eyes, a frown holding his maw hostage. He lifted himself up into a sitting position, limbs horribly lethargic, like his viens were filled with molasses rather than blood, and peered at the heavy book that he had once been reading, pages crumpled by his weight. Head ringing, he glanced up, observing the midday-draped surroundings which flanked him. Oh. Realization struck him in the chest, a flush rushing to his face, dusting his cheeks a light pink. He'd fallen asleep, brittle bones and scruffy fur sewn across the ground, left there.
There was no semblence of when he fell unconscious, when he fell over in exhaustion and into a fitful, flittery sleep. That worried him, honestly. How many people had seen him there, passed out in the dirt for what could have been minutes, or even hours? Aristotle blinked slowly, rolling his stuff shoulders slightly. How embarrassing, he lamented, still too tired to do much more than close his book, a steady downward tilt trapped on the corners of his mouth, a bitterness to his chilled breath.
//my muse is destroyed right now
