Character Sketchy

Found this old shit on my computer as I'm deleting and backing stuff up. Not sure what to do with it right now. Here ya go, Internet

One night, while laying in bed, he felt absolutely compelled to write about something that was neither  music nor skateboarding. He didn’t know why. As he was drifting off to sleep, exhausted and perfectly comfortable to let any and all thoughts wash over him, a strange and entirely unassociated sentence popped into his brain. Nothing had triggered it. No thought caused him to think of what he thought. Truthfully the fist thing he thought of as he lay in bed next to his girlfriend’s intense body heat, was a forest. For whatever reason, he thought of a cool, dark forest, lush and green like a Pacific Northwest thicket in the midst of a hearty March rain.
Fair enough. This vision of random forestry was certainly unique but not that uncommon of a thought in the unsolicited imagery and ideas constantly cascading through his strange brain, almost to the point where he could often swear he was losing his mind or at the very least someday would. A looming vivid and serene dimentia.
But this time he knew he had to get out of bed and obey the thought because it came in sentence form; not just an image or an idea but a sentence that rang out in his head, over and over again. Whenever a sentence and not an image or an idea haunted him, he hopped out of bed in a flash and attempted to write it down, immediately. It didn’t happen very often, and, it was so much easier to lay there and contentedly drift off to sleep, but he knew that when he awoke, that sentence would be gone forever. And so it commanded him. And on the night that he strangely thought of that lush forest, for whatever reason, the sentence that gripped his brain was the following, and this is what he wrote:

His name was Edgar. He wore a reddish brown worn in leather jacket with a huge seventies style collar, the John Travolta disco pimp look. Edgar had black hair that was now all but gray, him being in his early forties and having lived pretty hard. His face showed it. His skin was rough and battered, but there was a shine in his eye that was undeniable. A certain smirk-like quality to his presence that charmed him from one scenario to the next, chain smoking out of his mouth full of stained, crooked teeth, with the exception of one gold crown that nearly sizzled when his mouth was rarely free of a butt. A paisley polyester shirt unbuttoned enough to expose a bushy mass of wild curly gray chest hair, though underneath the bad fashion, his forearms still had their black hair.
An immigrant who had worked his entire life since arriving in the USA some twenty five years ago as a house painter, now found himself in the above described Northwest forest in the “writer’s” head, hunched under a giant tree, bleeding profusely into paisley polyester.