Tristen rolled onto the floor and stared at the white ceiling. It matched his white skin. he wasnt usually that pale. It must have just been that days events that attributed to his particular paleness this dreary afternoon.
Tristen decided this wasnt the worst thing that couldve happened. It was actually a good thing, he said to himself, though he still didn’t move from that spot on the floor.
Going down the hall, to the lunchroom, all he could think of was the squeaking of shoes. Everyones shoes. They squeaked.
And squeaked. Like they wouldn’t shut up. Like they were having their own private conversation, unknown to mans weary ear.

“oh why don’t u think the floors are particularly clean today?”

“no, id have to disagree Charles, I, came upon a sticky
substance they call gum, earlier, it was horrid!”

“really?”

“truly!â€?

“oh how dreadful!â€?
“indeed!â€?
Imaging the shoes with British accents. Yes. Because shoes were proper things.

"That is a little far fetched, he thought Even for me.