The tender covering on my eye twitches as a frail source of light tries to distract my eyes from being tired. I, rather, my eyes, do not relent. The light begins to flicker at uniform intervals, slowly but steadily. Notwithstanding the curiosity, my eyes crack open, only to see a blurred amalgamation of street lights, screened by thin bell pins falling from the sky as the growing wind pushes a small flower pot off a gardener's terrace. I look back and forth only to see the changing colours of the lights, all through a window pane with my nose pressed against it. Nothing can make me feel like a child again.