SEBASTIAN

Morning found a poet asleep outside the University gates. At least, he was a poet then. The sense of melancholy and self-disappointment that crawled into his stomach upon waking lent themselves well to verse. Made him wish that he'd worn black. That he was poor. He had failed. Yet again.
This night's attempt made the third that he had spent staked out in the various darker corners of the pretentiously empty square that sanctified the University's entrance. He had chosen this tangle of violently thorned and murderously viridian bushes flanking said gate because he supposed he couldn't possibly fall asleep there.


          [Obviously he'd been mistaken]


and now all his sleep-deprived brain seemed to be able to process was the odd bad metaphor for his personal failings, involving those thorns and the cold, dank dirt underneath him. He needed to bathe. Yes, he certainly felt like quite the artist, as he stalked off into the gray morning, hands shoved deep into his pockets, angsting.