The stainless glass window pierced only his mind. It ripped his eyes from within their sockets to the thin, almost nonexistent, window on the fifty-third floor: The accountant floor. His pupils widen to absorb a view he somehow ignored for his entire seven-year tenure. A life spent with empty nights and thoughtless chatter to people that could not accept remembering his face. A face that, if you were truly to study, you would come to realize had no attractive nor repulsive features. It was sadly, just like the fifty-third floor, like the almost nonexistent window, Average.

His soft hand, that had never known the joy of a day's worth in sweat and blood and tears, pressed fiercely against the panel of the window overlooking the fifty-three stories below. Always a victim of his own mind, he did not dare to look down. He only peered across the skyline, a vivid tangle of boxes, both slender and wide, acting as the bars to his own soul; caging him within the confines of his own cowardliness. Yet he knew, somewhere, behind those bars a beautiful dream of light shined, even while it was setting for yet another time.

The window came off far easier than he imagined it would, almost as a final dare from the building to do his deed, to show who really controlled his fate: Man or Man's Creation. Being cautious, even within his final minutes, he pulled the sheet of glass inside, as so not to fall onto anyone below him. No one would suffer on the account of his selfish deeds, he told himself within his own mind.

With a grasp of air inside his lungs, he stuck his neck out to feel the brush of a strong wind as it whipped in jagged, yet graceful, zigzags around the cityscape. It disheveled his hair, and he restrained every fiber of his being to not fix it. He breathed deeply, letting the chilled air hit his lungs like a hammer. A sudden rush of blood surged into his frontal lobe, and he felt at last some momentary sickness. He did not dare look below him.

He stepped out,
quoting his favorite song.
A song even his mother would sing to him when they had to huddle together, in those dim days that he spent so long to block out. When the roof leaked and the food was always cold. And he knew no-one would ever learn of what he truly learned from within this cell of penance. Yet he still sang, with a trembling voice, as the wind rushed past him,

"I'll be looking at the moon,
But I'll be seeing... You"