The lines run deep into his face like rivulets that pour into his stock white mustache, locking his mouth in a parenthesis of resounding laugh lines.

He's tired of dreaming other people's dreams. He's tired of pulling the darkness from the sky at the crack of dawn so that the ungrateful can crawl from their comfortable beds. He's tired of bringing the sun to half-mast at noon and putting the clouds up for the one's who complain about the sunshine. And then tired again of building up the soft moonlight so that young lovers can be inappropriate on city park benches.

He seems smiling, even when he's not, perhaps that's why they take advantage of him.