An empty room mocks the clocks and the angry boy who lives and breathes by its tocks. After a while of mindless, empty stalling, he starts to rummage for the remote to the television, he looks for a good half an hour, just to kill his boredom. It’s small and if unhappiness were a color, a shade of grey, that was the color grey it was. He flips it around in his palm a few times and picks at the duct tape over the batteries. He knows that eventually it will lose tack and the triple As will fall out. He knows that this will aggravate him dearly; but he could care less. All that matters is the Twilight Zone is on.