Faces

He likes the unlit night. A dark room with not a single glimmer. He knows why he is always tired, his mind must look at a thousand faces a day, and never flinch away, but gaze at all the hope and misery time has written upon them. Some, the young and beautiful, bereft of body, float now in the refraining orbit of memory, and yet, even they seem to grow old in this inked over space He bathes in the darkness, as yesterday's faces slowly fade, melting away one by one. Only his face is left now to roam across a pitch of stygian obscurity, until he cannot even recall his own reflection, for all the mirrors in the world have hidden his features. At last, he can let go of all these ever changing images of humanity, and with a wordless prayer light only one small candle behind his eyes.