He sits alone, the indentation of a friend's company still silhouetted against his mind. Hungrily, he pours a third bowl of cereal and munches on dried strawberries and crunchy flakes of bran. The scraping sound of the spoon against the ceramic bowl chimes like a bell in the silence. The milk has become faintly flavored with the taste of berries. From the street the sound of passing cars roar out into the darkness. The old windows gently rattle in their frames while the curious night air presses itself against them. "It's warm tonight," he thinks to himself. "So strange that Winter is almost here."
He recalls tales told of denials and belated admissions, and he wonders what secrets he'll confess to himself in time. For now though, he seeks refuge in routine; sadly. The world is a place that fosters foolish consistencies, always seeking to assuage nature's penchant for serendipity. Outside a mangy cat stalks a darkened alleyway, moving with providence and equanimity. The light from the full moon gilds its path - a sallow candle. A dirtied newspaper kicked up by the breeze startles the creature and it dashes off into the darkness.
On his bed he begins to feel his muscles grow heavy, turning to quicksand. His mind starts to still. Writing becomes less of a pleasure and more of a pain. Two tightened pupils start to swell and paint his eyes black. They pull down his eyelids like drawn curtains, trying to keep out the light.
He begins drifting. Having told himself he'd just rest his eyes for a moment, he lowers his head. He remembers his mother. Smiling, he recalls how he would make fun of her when she would say that. "You mean sleeping," he'd say.
"Resting your eyes is another way to say sleeping."
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