at the wrong time

He sat there saying nothing, doing nothing, hardly a breath escaped him. Finger-thin lines of sunlight projected from in-between venetian blinds onto the left side of his young, unshaven profile as smoke escaped his mouth in gentle rolls which were illuminated only in the lines of sun.

He sat there, blank with exhaustion, on his dusty, weathered couch for hours, with his mouth dry from Tequila and menthol cigarettes and glared through the walls as if there were something out there to see. 

Looking for some truth in the world, maybe... but he's starting to think that he’s come to the wrong place…