What sad eyes the boy possessed. Staring off into a better world beyond the logistical restraints that bound him to this seat. He tried to look presentable, with flipped surfer hair and a white shell necklace. His tee-shirt is the hue of his lost eyes, bluer than the waves on the ocean. Perhaps that's where he is; high upon a cresting mountain, feeling the wind whip back his blonde locks and work over his golden face. He watches the birds soar and the sun glimmer and looks up with anticipation as though the world he is floating through is real. But the sun is not here, just artificial bulbs. The birds are not here, the only thing over his are tangles masses of wires and thin pipes that intertwine over the expanse of the ceiling. This is not his place. This is not his dream. So he locks on through the wall with a mournful gaze.