In a dimly lit room, a young punk, a twink really, is lost in his own world. A book in one hand, a cigarette in the other, he's oblivious to the world around him, especially the pair of eyes fixated on his feet. His socks, dirty from days of wear, barely contain his feet, the toes wiggling occasionally, drawing the observer's gaze. The punk takes a long drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing, his feet completely ignored, yet the observer can't take their eyes off, the punk's boredom a aphrodisiac in itself.