Tinted Glass

It is during the night that I live. It is the moment when the sun leaves the sky and the stars turn visible to the eye. I enter the room and recognize the familiar faces. The swiveling chair invites me to sit; I oblige. The computer in front of me looks back, waiting for my commands. It is during this time that I am at my best.

I glance at the window; it does not permit me to view the outside. All I see is the pitiful reflection of a man -- his clothes clinging to his skin, the cold creeping in his veins. There is no trace of longing in his face. Yet he longs for the morning -- the time when he can look outside and see the world.

But for now, I work. The thought of bed and a soft pillow for my aching head is at the back of my mind.

Dreams can wait.