It is still dark. He lives within a frequently colourless, always timeless world, yet the lack of a zeitgeber seems to bother him little. This absence of time passage used to be his greatest hope and most desired wish. Now it is a prison which confines him. In every possible way. Of course, his mind had still been left to play. Now even that is hopelessly fettered.
Members of the species homo sapiens and the phylum sapiens are in need of time, or so he had learned during his undergraduate days, paradoxical and mish-mashed as they were. Time is a proper stimulus for the advent of the circadian rhythm; without it, one is barely alive. Such as this. Barely alive. There is no day, nor night. Only endless … six o’clock. Or had he decided upon that ages before? No matter. Six o’clock. Six o’clock, is what it had always seemed. There was never enough light for noonday, and the ambience of the concrete, stone and faded chrome lacked the sort of warmth necessary for dawn. And there was not the sort of haze one expects from an adequate dusk, either. Though it was a bit twilight - only a bit. The sun had a special way of making itself known at Oxford, likely as it was such an occasion to feel its glowing warmth. Sure, it shone behind the clouds, offering a few rays here and there which floated gently in through the windows of his office - the very same which once belonged to the late Charles Dodgson. Staircase Seven. How, he misses it so.
Six o’clock it was. Too much golden warmth between four and five post meridian, and it lacked the presence of moonlight. Six it was. Six it forever should be.
© 2003 Aubigne Spratling. All rights reserved.