He keeps multiple lights in his room.
There are two floor lamps, a desk lamp,
And whatever light comes from his screen.
He sits there, for hours at a time.
He goes to bed at night, bloodshot and exhausted.
He does this, every day, for years.
The world has no corners,
So he built one.
His laptop has spots eroded where his palms rest.
The rest of his room has gathered dust.
His walls have grown mildew.
He is still at his computer,
Doing little of value.
In a moment of catharsis,
He rests his hand on his desk,
And knocks a pen to the floor.
He reaches down to pick it up,
And at that very moment,
He gets a look outside his window.