Singing silently nightly to oneself.

If only street lights could assuage me now.
His gaze drifting past the wood of the window frame and into the monotonous, entrenching romance of a tree rimmed street washed in a quiet amber light as he drinks the night air drifting to him. His world as it is (pock-marked with the normal worries gathered in a life) seems comforting to him in moments such as these, his eyes sagging with melancholy and an enduring longing for the frontier of mysteries. There is Mickey Mouse and Victorian houses sheltered under torn umbrellas back from the wars and rain storms in which they were drafted.

Pausing, lips pursed as his distance consumes him and he walks the crossroads of a devilishly disheveled mind, he smiles that weary kinda lonesome smile. Putting out a cigarette and a prayer he relinquishes himself to bed. He has eyes to dream of tonight, and for that at least he is grateful. For the wood of the window frame and all of it, he ascends to a subtle state of grace.