He’d sit there until he ran out of words to string together.
   
       He’d sit there until the ink from his biro ran into his mouth, down his chin and onto his table forming pools of blue that he could get lost in. He was the type of person that could get lost in anything. He would sit at his desk, in his bedroom and look at the street below, he would look at all the cars driving past, all the people walking past. And think. He would think about their lives, he would wonder whether they had a small brown dog called Gerry. Or three goldfish called Trevor, Francis and Theodore. He would ask himself countless questions. He would forget about his world and get lost in the ones he had created for others.

        He would read, he would read until his eyes were numb, and when he couldn’t read anymore, he’d close his eyes and get lost in the world he’s just imagine [everything going just as he wanted it to], get lost in that world and leave his one behind.
           
        He was the sort of boy who’d would choose magical over logical, and be happy hysterical. He was the sort of boy who’d let you get lost in his eyes, and then leave, leaving nothing but the trace of cherry drops and peppermint toothpaste [with a hint of something foreign] in your mouth, and would never let you get over him.  .