He sits alone in a small, cluttered room. He reaches underneath the table cluttered with full ashtrays, empty notebooks, and a cup full of pens and pencils,

He's lost for a moment, the walls are mud bricked and the floor is dirt. Small torches blaze on the walls threatening to set the thatched roof alight. Pictures float in front of him, a gift from a magician he couldn't remember befriending. He used to marvel at them. No less impressive now, but primarily so in their uselessness to him.

and grabs a small leather pouch the size of a box of pencils. From it he produces the papers and spills shredded green onto a notebook,

It's spring and the bright green leaves are falling, blown across an unknown distance from a forest he cannot see, onto the bare brown dirt that surrounds him. None of this strikes him in the least bit odd. He considers piling up the leaves into an empty plastic bag for use as a pillow.

and rolls it tightly. He puts the papers back in the pouch, retrieves a matchbook from his pocket, strikes it,

There was a time when fire could be conjured out of air and thought, the hot fires of minds that slowly burned dreams and hope and despair. It was a time when the animals spoke and the spirits guided and there may have been microwaves, too. He couldn't remember the rest.

lights, and smokes quietly, looking about with a dull blank stare, eyes wandering and lighting on random pieces of the detritus

Model replica pagodas, potions, lucifer lanterns, various magickal apparatae, a dish filled with burned tindersticks, a large spotted creature with a ridiculously large neck but otherwise shaped vaguely like a horse.

surrounding him.

He dared not blink, only staring silently at wisps of smoke.