His skin pale and his nose red from the cold weather, his hood up showing the yellow inside of the jacket with the dark green color on the outside, and a grey shirt under another grey (v-neck) shirt underneath that jacket. His blonde, greasy hair clear of his face but still, visible. His blue clout glasses in his pocket, his fingers red just as his nose.

His blue eyes glancing somewhere else with his eyebrows furrowed as the snow poured, standing next to you after a long, long day of getting angry, being emotional, yelling, shying away, whispering, singing, playing, breaking stuff, a long, long day that felt like a week.

His arms at his side with his casual jeans on and his converse, the snow and rain falling on his jacket. Waiting for the train to arrive, for the clouds to become darker because that's the only comforting thing.

His eyes were rather sad, opposed to his usual crazed look from when he's high, or stoned, or drunk. One of the three. Or when he's angry. Or when he's happy. Sad eyes, that's it.

He looked tired, and yes, angry at what could only be described as the dumb, shitty, general public as well as the music industry. He hated how vicious he was becoming. But not loud, yelling at people type of vicious. Quiet, creeping vicious that settled under his tongue and in the pit of his burning, nauseous stomach. Where he would only sit and stare in silence in a corner, and not talk to anyone.

But yet, he looked more sad than angry. It's not like he really did it on purpose, his eyes were just naturally expressive. But no one could read him like he read others. Not Krist, not Dave, no one.

And it made him feel shitty. Because no one could tell how tired he was, despite his clear despair and wishing for the day to end and how close he was to breaking and doing things he can't even think of, in front of thousands of people.

His eyes drift around, the sky was an apocalyptic dark. But comfortable, nonetheless.