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 ^{(it's beta!)}

Somewhere there is an androgynousness with gray hair that hangs in his face. He has thick glasses covered in smudges, and the beginning of wrinkles on his face, even though he is young. He sits on a stool in the light, but barely in the light. There is a small table with a tray on it. Something metal shines off, several metal things, mostly long and slim and strange. He is wearing a bulky brown sweater, with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Underneath is a startlingly white shirt. His arms are long, thin, and pale, but otherwise nondescript. An ancient rolex shines dully on his wrist.

He looks relaxed, leaning back, legs stretched out, as if waiting patiently. The expression on his face is undeterminable; he could be dead. He is partly in the light. Only partly.

In the dark there is black. If there are others like him, watching, silent, dead, only he knows. They are where you can't see them. It doesn't matter, anyways. Why would it matter? One is enough.

He breaks the eternal silence. But, remember, he could be a she. An it. An angel. His voice gives you no tools of measurement, though you wish you could clamp your hands over your ears and scream. The words sear through your brain straight to your heart. You can do nothing, and why?

You are in the light, wholly displayed for the world to see, strapped to the table, unable to give yourself even the blessing of silence.