He sat, his back against an old oak, at the top of a hill. The young man wasn't quite sure how long he'd sat there, only that the sun had departed from his sky, and the soft breeze that circulated through the grass around his ankles would soon coax him into leaving. His eyes, though only slits of cerulean, looked intent on something--in deep thought... He couldn't remember thinking of anything in particular, only that the breeze that lifted his shirt from his skin made him feel brilliant. His hand rested upon a shredded paperback book. The ragged book lie closed amidst soft tendrils of green. Inside an old post-card held his spot: one day he would muster the courage and will to send it to the person he cared most about. Stretching his legs out straight he tangled his bare toes into the soil, letting his curious blue eyes drift from the lights in the atmosphere to the ambient glow from the city below. He took a deep breath stealing as much of the cold air between the two beacons he could. He believed in the good in man, he thought--he just lacked the ambition to make a difference. With such an ephemeral existance does it matter?
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