The day grew grayer. Dusk. Watching out his east window, the overcast sky slowly slipped into ever deepening tones. Winter, cold but very little snow. He sat and listened, eating soup at his table in the quieter time between day and dark. Slowly, even mechanically lifting each spoonful to his mouth, he took note of the sounds of the street. Cars, wheels and engines, coming and going. A louder hush would rise and then fall, followed by either a short or long moment of near silence. And then, seemingly without stimulus, the louder hush would surge towards him again, and then away.

Finishing his soup, he remained sitting, watching the room pace slowly toward darkness. No bulb had been lit upon his entry to the room, the day's ambient light still being enough for eating, though not for reading. And so the light in the room kept cadence with the day, and he made no motion to impose upon its decay. Only sat, and watched, and listened. Thought a bit, but not too much, laying his mind to rest against the indifferent graying of the air about him.

A streetlight sputtered on; he saw it bring new shadows to the room. First pale and near the same quality as the room's general air. Then more definite as the world came near the door of night. But the shadows granted from this eerie yellow light where not numerous or domineering. The room remained dark as before, and soon reached its stable color for the night.

And so he sat, witnessing, breathing, staring, but in a kind of anesthesia. Like sleep, but still conscious of the quiet events in the world surrounding him. Frozen in a restful, though barren, retrospection. Until, in an unanticipated moment, he blinked the subdued glaze from his eyes and rose. Saying aloud "Well, I guess it's time to get started," he turned on a light.