He'd grown up here. All the same little back roads. Everything always the same, but still it had been years since he'd been out here. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and stared directly up at the sky as he walked so he'd grow dizzy. He could almost hear the lazy drawling voice of Teresa in his mind.
Schizophrenics always look younger than they are.
It's a Peter Pan thing. He spun around several times and almost flopped over on the ground, but that was too much. He needed to be alone longer before he reached that reduced level of inhibition. He kept walking, his thoughts racing in their usual way. Everything compartmentalized, squeezed and crammed into tiny cubbyholes.