Static presses dimly behind the ache in his eyes, mantling his mind in the warped, digitized fuzz of numerical error. There is a tone humming persistently in his general vicinity, its temerity marginally shy of unbearable.

His hands fist into the fabric covering him as he attempts to realign his mental pathways, resolute despite the sensation of being irreversibly mired in choppy, viscous postsleep neural sludge.

His eyes snap open in parallel to the pressing of hands against the first lateral surface, which is the seat of a couch and he does not own a couch nor does he sleep on couches as he has long since made this a necessary criterion for his state of being.

He twists himself upright, apparently overestimates his body's sense of balance and weight in relation to gravity, and ends up on the floor.

He employs the couch as leverage to drag himself back into what can be possibly construed as a sitting position and tries not to feel asthenic.

The tone of the screen and its insistent murmur of static has grown intolerable and so he lurches fully to his feet and begins cutting an unerring line for the door as he requires coffee absolutely fucking requires it and he will require it immediately and then he will need to get the fuck away from this couch he does not own a couch.