Never a trouble to sleep.

The fisherman left before sunrise. He knew the hue the glowing orb would cast even before it did. His boots are worn, cracked. Though he has enough money for the new and shiny ones, he chooses not to spend his treasure, deeming it as frivolous and unnecessary.

He has lived a quiet life for longer than he cares to admit. Season change seems like it comes every other day, the time passes so quickly now.

Often, when he sits down to eat his uncolorful dinner, he stretches his right arm across the table towards the empty chair. And sometimes, he’ll tighten his hand into a loose fist, pretending he’s holding onto someone, something.

When this silent act isn’t enough he’ll sit in front of his piano and play the only song he knows. A tune that has been in his head since he was a boy and his hair was still dark, and the eyes were glowing. Every so often a little more is added to it, but somehow it always remains the same. And sometimes, none of it will do and he’ll just sit there, his pale fingers resting so lightly atop the porcelain keys.

He knows when his head hits the single pillow he won’t be bothered by the silly emotions any longer. He sleeps deep, and dreams never waste his time.

And finally, after his boat is out to sea he is able to relax. He likes the dark mornings when the waves are violent. It reminds him of his early years getting breakfast in the busy diner before the day officially began. The noise seems to be about the same. And at times he’ll wonder if the noise was the water slapping back down to the body of the sea or if the fish were just that loud.

Different days bring different answers and he blames it on the color of the sky, which secretly, he hates to look up to. As if it really is that far above him, as if it has a god complex, as if it really, truly believes that everything else is that far below. No, he doesn’t care for how the sky mocks and points out his inadequacies.

The day passes in seconds and he cranks the line to the nets. Wondering how he spent so much time, thinking the same things, every single day.

And he comes home to his uncolorful dinner.

To his empty hand.

To his same ol’ song.