Gemotions

“This is… different,” he mumbled, glancing around his childhood room. The posters, the old band shirts – they were relics now. He ran a hand through his hair, the touch oddly foreign. He could feel a hum beneath his skin, a need to move, to be in action.

He headed for the garage, the smell of oil and gasoline immediately drawing him in. He found his old bicycle, cobwebs clinging to the frame. He started tinkering, the familiar click of tools a comforting rhythm. His movements, fast and frantic, were a distraction.

He rode it down the street, the wind whipping through his hair. The road was a blur, the world outside a vibrant landscape. Speed was the only cure.