Today is the day.

He just - when he woke up:

he knew.

Black and white had swirled to a blend of charcoal and slate over the meager landscape. Snow-strewn ground sighed as it was boxed in by painted houses on all sides.

He looked up, through the glass of a frosted window, he saw the moon. Early childhood: that was the final night he thought the moon could see him, too.

His room, perhaps, felt akin to a prince's tower as he sat in wait; sheets thrown dramatically across the small bed as if flung awake by a battalion's gong; crumpled duvet and pillows on the floor as if hurriedly fleeing an archaic draft.

He turned, his back then facing the window.

In this unwelcome hour of an early, sombre, winter morning, even the earth was still sleeping. Perhaps he shall not be around to see it awaken.

His eyes glanced up. Invited by a trifling sparkle, he stepped forward. His bare feet began to stiffen, cold, with the duvet's loss; they pattered yellow and purple across the floor.

He reached the sparkle. Upon realization, his lips curled at the edges as a little white was exposed. His faint laugh brushed fog onto the opposing mirror.

His gleaming eyes sparkled in the mirror's reflection.

He lingered on the reflection, a battalion all his own. His advisory and his ally.

He glanced to the right; half bleached, half black hair shifted, tickling over his eyelashes. His eyes fell to red, boxy numericals. 6:37.