The chill emanating from the window barely registers within his mind. Too deep within his thoughts, Seunghyun merely watches the steam rise and curl from his cup of freshly made tea, watching it take form and dissipate.

     Much like life, he muses. So quick to take form, so easily wafted away into the memories of the air.

     He wishes he wouldn’t dwell on such thoughts. Thoughts of how quickly life passes by. He folds his arms over the tops of his knees, which are tucked up to his chest so he can fit on the window ledge. After a few more moments of peering over the edges of his sleeves at the innocent cup of deeply brown liquid, he lays his head on his two appendages, temporal bone resting comfortably on his forearm. His eyes search the glass of the window, the image of himself wielding no good answer. He unfocuses his eyes to peer past himself, to examine the bright lights that color the world outside his apartment.  The cars that flash by on the street below and the signs that light up the edges of the sidewalks being among the most prominent.

     The meaning of life doesn’t rest within anything he’s seeing – he knows this – but he can’t help but look. Maybe the answers will spell themselves out in a strangers eyes – if he were to ever go out and actually look someone in the eye, that is – or maybe come to him in the way the pigeons flock to roof of the building opposite of him, if he just stared long enough.

     It’s foolish, and he knows it.

     So why does he do it?

     Perhaps it is simply in his nature, to look for the things that don’t exist, in the places he is the least likely to find them.

     Seunghyun shakes himself from these thoughts – they are worthless, they are not helping anyone. He reclines back against the wall that encases his window, and returns his attention to cup of tea that is cooling by his socked feet. He always liked tea, and had truly craved it when he had turned the stove on to heat the kettle, but now he seemed to have lost his taste for it, his mouth going dry at the thought of the bitter leaf juice taking residence up in his digestive tract.

     So he slides of the ledge, careful not to knock to porcelain mug to the floor as he does so. His long limbs cause him such a nuisance at times – failing out at the worst possible moments to knock fragile items off tables or to cause injury to anyone happening to stand close by. He reaches out to the mug, enjoying the slight burn he feels at his fingertips as he grasps the mug in his hand. He pads his way quietly to the kitchen, catching a few feeble wisps of steam in the half-light.

     He casts one look back at the window he sat at not moments before, wondering again that if he had just stayed there a while longer – no, he dismisses the thought. No more dwelling tonight.

     And he pours the tea down the sink.