Edgar Bartholomew lifted up from his bed with a sudden thrust of motion. His eyes, for the first time that day, spread wide and observed his current situation. Although minding the sudden brightness that illuminated his view, Edgar glanced across his bed. It’s thick, heavy sheets and covers, which rested atop his long and thin legs were kicked violently to the side with another thrust. He steadily raised his lengthy arms and pushed off the bed for leverage to stand, and once on his feet he swerved his head about to regain his orientation in the room he had lost it to late that night before. Edgar’s personal effects were sprawled across the carpeted floor, journals, reference books, pens and pencils, mostly business things of sort. His foot came down on the binding of a red book, but only the corner pricked him which felt as though he had plunged his bare foot down onto a cardboard nail, not the most comforting of sensations.
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