because it could really help define your evenings. Or rather your midnights and daybreaks.
It is 12:20 according to the PC. And Fitzsimmons is once again putting a mist-and-pale-yellow-light cloud over my mood. But the white energy-saving bulb above me ruins it all. And I know that if there was a clock up on my wall, the tick-tock of its average-sized standard wall clock hands would seep through the music cooing from my earpiece. I long for the feeling. I continue to ramble and tippity-type on the keyboard trying to transcend this present reality and cross over to that place in my mind where the lamp that lights the room is yellow and the clock ticks to the beat of the song. When I close my eyes, I am transported. And also, I am unable to type. So I open my eyes and imagine it, look beyond the harsh white light.
And despite the absence of the mood lighting and ambient sounds, I manage to sift through the words I’ve caught in my net and make sense of it —
The song plays, the bed beckons. The dream is waiting for me, its doors are open. The yellow light slips through the cracks. There, it’s calling me: tick-tock, tick-tock.