Some old and incomplete short stories

Up for reworking, like every damn thing on this blog.
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Plane ticket in pocket and boarded safely, Anthony was looking forward to a nap to elapse the whole ride. Though already master of elapsing time he further honed these skills during the past two weeks, dreadfully alone in NYC. Ah, but dread is a word only an observer would use. Inside a person's mind one often finds much to entertain oneself with.

He had shut his blind altogether unappreciative of the view. The man is content with the inside of his eyelids, they are the canvases of imaginative visions which relentlessly govern his attention. As passengers continued to flood the aisle, the two seats next to him became occupied. To his right sat Nastasia, a nutritionist in her mid twenties.. Her undeniable beauty and bright red dress created a stark contrast between her existence and the prevalence of aesthetic monotony.

He sensed a disturbance. Sneakily, opening his right eyelid he stole a glance, fodder for his cannons. To his surprise, both eyes opened suddenly and inexplicably began to speak.

'Headed to Miami, too, huh?'
"Well I am sitting here aren't I?" she snapped, eyes fixed on the seat ahead.
'I ask because just now I was headed to a separate universe altogether.'
Taking this as some odd come on, she remained silent.
'I may have been too intimidating' he thought to himself, adding
'I'm sorry, my name is Anthony Saul' he paused briefly,
'I've spent the past two weeks avoiding human contact, so the things I say may seem a little weird.' Nastasia frowned, scratched her head, let out a sigh and said
"Well, I'm not surprised by the ease with which you could isolate yourself from humanity."

Anthony rubbed his fists into his eyes and let out a long, drawn out yawn. He looked at the time and noticed he had an hour to pack his bags. Beginning to panic, albeit having ample time, for he had already boarded. He lifted his blind and looked down at the distant earth. Nostalgia crept as he contemplated the continuity of streets and discreteness of roofs. It's during moments like these when one wonders whether one had ever been loved. Fond memories of red dresses negated his suspicions. Satisfied, he once again sank into deep sleep, to awake in NYC.
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Larkin sat still in his study. Piles of paper lay stacked neatly on the floor next to his rolling chair. For a moment he expressed dissatisfaction, but summarily assumed a peaceful smile, as if celebrating the modest triumph of finally dismissing a disturbing thought. He slowly rose from his chair and turned off his lamp, making his way to bed. The next morning a phone call woke him up, it was was Arthur. He had called to remind Larkin that he'd be arriving at the airport later that evening and half jokingly advised to bring his sister drunk. At this request he only responded with an impatient click of the tongue.

Before he left for the airport he had a couple errands to run, but even before that, he must satisfy his necessities. He proceeded to his study and drew out a sketch of the human mind on a blank sheet of white paper. The sketch consisted of three concentric circles, the largest labeled Universe, next Knowledge, and last Awareness. He set his pen down and began to contemplate existence. Suddenly, his sister burst into his study.

'Lark!' she exclaimed, drawing out that single vowel. 'You better not get too wrapped up in work, we gotta go pick up Arthur in a half hour.'
"Don't worry sis, I'll be done in a sec."
She stood with arms crossed leaning against the door frame with dreamy eyes. Thin hazelnut hair folded gently over her shoulders as she sank into her posture, a fire reminiscent of apocalyptic visions burned serenely in her pupils.

'Lark' she started, as if staring at the sky. 'How long have you been working on your theory?'
He got up from his chair and neatly stacked his desolate diagram on the shortest pile.
"Since I was born, according to my theory." he muttered, unconvinced.
'Hey, you know, Arthur just bought a villa in a town near Siena. He's working from home as a real estate agent.'
"From home? How does he meet his clients?"
'Oh, he pretends to be a paraplegic and hosts web conferences, sends his clients web cams and everything. What an approach!'

Larkin stood facing his sister with a look of resignation. He caught himself and began:
'He must be having a wonderful time with his life. I remember when he used to guilt me into letting him copy my homework in high school. He would beg like "Come on man! You know this doesn't mean anything!" Apparently I took pride in nothing, and still I...'

Silence swallowed the room. His eyes began to swell with tears. They met hers. He reached for her face with both sets of fingertips, and planted his lips on hers, slowly letting go and placing his thumb on over her mouth.

'If only you could sense in every abstraction (I give) the feeling which induced its construction. I would take the sensation of your lips and construct a monument of defeat.'
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