Everything is quiet. Frank opens his eyes and sees nothing. As if the world had come to an end. Just like the people on TV had predicted. He watched a documentary about the new year conspiracy the other day. Scary thought, he thought. And the report was quite convincing, too. Just imagine. Or better don't. For a second Frank considers to start a panic, but then changes his mind. Suddenly a light beam moves across the ceiling. He follows it with his eyes, concentrated, to figure out what it is. But before his pupils get used to it it's gone. The remote sound of a sirene finally lets him relax. It was only a car, driving by on the street outside of his apartment. What a relief. He closes his eyes again, but how could he possibly sleep? That was just too much action for him, his heart is still pounding like the heart of a young man in love.
Natalie. He hasn't thought about her in many years. The illuminated digits on his radio alarm clock say, 03:52. That's a cruel time to be awake, he thinks. A time that is past late and yet long before early. He rubs his face with his hands, then releases a deep sigh. His mind is trapped, between his ex-wife and the Mayan Prophecy. His body, too. He's too tired to properly get up and start working on his story, but not tired enough to go right back to sleep. I could read some, he thinks. But he won't. Even though he really likes the book that he's currently carrying around under his arm. He usually reads a lot, but at the moment he's fed up with letters and words. No, instead of reading he decides to go to the toilet.
A moment later Frank finds himself in the bathroom, hesitating. Standing in front of the sink he's not sure anymore why he came here. He double-checks, but he can't register any natural urge to use the toilet. He sits on the side of the white ceramic bath tub. What am I doing here? he asks himself. What am I doing with my life? Confused he looks into the mirror and finds a depressing picture, the picture of his depressed face. He ends up brushing his teeth. The sound of the bristles scrubbing his dentrition reminds him of apples. He wonders why. Subconsciously he opens the window with his unoccupied hand. Only a bit. A cold breeze surprises him and lets him shiver. But he enjoys the fresh air.
Outside, everything is sleeping. The tall tree that was here long before Frank was. The little playground that the kids don't come to play at anymore, they're too old now. And the building on the other side, too, looks like it is sleeping. Lights out, eyes closed. A funny sound pierces the dark silence. Frank snaps out of his thoughts, for a moment he was lost. He spits out the old toothpaste-saliva mix and listens more closely, hoping to hear it again. Eager not to make a sound he ladles a bit of water into his mouth, gargles carefully and lets it drip into the sink hole. With a fresh towel he wipes his mouth, and right when he thinks it was nothing he hears it again. He opens the window wide and waits. And there it is again. This time he hears it perfectly clear. The singing of a bird.
Frank smiles and closes the window quietly, because he doesn't want to scare the bird away. How odd, he thinks. A bird singing at this hour, he must be confused. Frank remembers another report he saw on TV. Global warming causes flora and fauna to mistake winter for spring. That must be it, he thinks while he walks back to his bedroom. Or maybe he can't sleep, either. How comforting, Frank thinks. He yawns into his pillow and slowly crawls back under the blanket, smiling at the chirping sound that is still in his head. It's a new year, he suddenly realizes. Another yawn, and soon he's looking at the ceiling with his eyes closed. It's a new year, he thinks, I'll think about it tomorrow. For now he wants to think about the bird, his friend who can't sleep, either. It's a new year, he mumbles, and I wonder what it will bring.
