He stood alone on a dark hillside and watched the world. Lights blinked and the wind whispered mysteries to the midnight stars. The hill before the young man undulated in the moonlight as each stalk of untouched wheat moved to the will of the brisk October air. There was a town there beneath him, an eternity away, but it could only be seen and contemplated, never touched. With one eye closed he could pinch the tallest building between his thumb and forefinger. It all seemed so insignificant to him now; the father and son that he could not see sitting in different rooms, afraid; the man and woman he could not hear flinging hurtful words, angry. He sat on the hill with the moonlight gently kissing his cheek and the earthy scent of vegetation swirling around him.
A dew began to settle on his neck, though, and almost unconsciously he realized that he was cold. The peace of the night and the quiet symphony of wheat has brought him here and shown him a repose; but the lights of town called him as a mother calls her child when the sun is setting. “Come and rest. There is time for life tomorrow. Yet another day.” So I make my way home only to find the sun rising the next morning; and I must become part of the town which only the night before I held between my fingers.
