"Got a wonder on how we fucked the poor motherfuckers over."

And he sees that movement, something catching and making him hold his breath. He can't tell if he wants to lean into it or pull away. It's not quite right. And yet...

And yet, he's to the point where he doesn't care if it's the wrongest motherfucking thing. He just wants the hurt and confusion to go away. He wants to be happy again. Find the miracles and get his most motherfucking chill on all over. Everyone being the best of motherfucking friends and no one full of upset nowhere. Sitting back and getting their quench on with their elixirs of choice and just bumping graspers and being full up with contentment in the light of Mirth. Slamming and squawking what about their chillness and all together. Why can't they have that? Why? It feels cold and empty instead of up and miraculous, like the Messiahs aren't up and getting their watch on no more. Where did they go? Where did the joy go?

So after a minute, two, he finally rocks forward, seeking out the touch like a tiny starved kitten, blind and mewling for attention. Not that he makes any sound, but the expression on his face has that desperation all through it.