Tapping his pencil against his chin, Remington was the picture of aimless distraction. It had been so long since he'd had any motivation...
It was sad, really; he'd spent so many nights as of late staring mutely at his journal, then staring equally mutely out the window with his brows furrowed in thought. He was disgusted with himself, disgusted with his too quiet muse; disgusted at the fact that he had wasted a great deal of time that he could be doing something productive by staring. Nothing more than staring.
He needed to find a new hobby.
