Rhythm

The sun sets without fail, every day. The moon rises, that pale shimmering orb, every night. The dusty stars flare into existence and burn out, those tired, tired souls, every night.
It’s all a rhythm.
He too, is part of it.
As those around go to sleep, he wakes up, a soul just as lonely as the stars above. He doesn’t draw the parallel. Few would, really. Instead, he glows as well, just like the heavenly objects above, his face framed in the light of the artificial glow of his computer, his shoulders hunched, his eyes squinted.
Click, click, click.
There is nothing new under the sun, nothing new on the Internet. He laughs mirthlessly as he cycles through 4chan, Reddit, and Facebook. He sends a video message to a friend on the other side of the world. He sends a message on Facebook to that same friend. Then he leans back. Stares out the window, into the eternal night—and, for an infinitesimal moment, experiences the barest moments of the beginning of an epiphany. Of what, he does not know. That he almost has it, he also does not know.
None of that matters. The sun will rise again, and he will sleep. The moon and stars will return, and he will wake.
That is what matters.
Click. click, click.

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