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He managed to feel alone in a grayfloored hallway, flourescently lit, and filled with the sounds, scents, and vibrations of hundreds of high school students. He could be in a place completely lacking sound, even natural sounds or the hum of machinery while around him the dischord and din of voices, loud, boisterous, strident, whispered, desperate, confident, frightened, or just made for the sake of the sound itself bounced around the 10'x10' hallway tunnels. He saw in grayscale, when he looked at anything at all other than the floor, in spite of the bright t-shirts, the endless stream of hair colors, the make-up, the posters and signs and art projects and dirty word poems scrawled on the gray walls. The world was a gray coverall, a yellow mop bucket on squeaky black wheels, gray mopwater with a scant film of dirty bubbles flaoting on its surface, a white mophandle with gray woodstreaks peaking through the peeling white paint, his graying hair, unruly and combed by several nights rubbing against a pilled and dirty pillowcase, and gray/green eyes that saw the world in gray but noticed all of the little things overlooked by the boisterous rabble surrounding him.