School 2

The school is as grey as a blunt knife buried under the rainy soil, squelching there under muddy boots, fertilising. A kind of weak and meagre meg of moogs. Pouting in the rain.
Meanwhile Mack is getting involved in something probably sexual back home. Forgets and pulls on his white and wondrous nose, all in the huge and beautiful aroma of his house which is an utterly indefinable aroma of soap and dinners and old jeans and ah suburbia, Mack taps on his skinny knee with not a thought in his empty head or maybe he just stayed in bed that day and dreamed delicious little bloodrush dreams. That little kid all scuffled and bagweary in the night, more pallid and sickstrong with weariness in the awesome dishdale morn. Covered up his head to sleep again.
Just slept that's all. Remembrance passeth. Blinking little fourteen Mack. Holy is the zero as he sleeps and he knows it, bummed and melonhappy born from morn.
Whatever happened to him, he just wasn't there, no school and nothing but inside or outside glum realization of December. Or a snickering redflush giggle.
Or maybe he played with his computer games.
Disappearing Mack not at school, not where he was supposed to be. Somewhere else.
All you can be sure of is that he was awake at home that evening probably clearing up a big plate of dinner sensible-mouthed with starchlet grim slacker trousers, mouthing greedily over forks, munching musclejawed and steadfast before TV. Was probably kept off school for a nonexistent illness so he could sleep breezily in the layers of sheet, perch on his big spectacles to traipse downstairs and roam, dwelling on daytime. All grizzled and garumpled fast asleep at 9 o clock in the morning on a horrible wet December morning.
Woke up slept woke up slept. Schlaft in Himmlischer Ruh. Exutlant, dead.