He returned home late again. The door opened with a slow creak. He stood there at the precipice, slouched in his black suit and tie, his black hair, and black circles under his eyes. He blinked slowly, then stepped in.
He threw his keys to his left, they clashed on the kitchen counter. He walked passed the small sink and fridge, and into the same room he went straight for his bed, it sprawled out on the floor with white sheets.
He dropped the case that was glued to his hands. It struck the floor with a bang. He didn't notice or care. He bent back and fell to sitting on his mattress. He pried his left hand under the black collar on his neck, loosening it with a strong grip. It was stiff, it wasn't moving. He bit his teeth and flared, he ripped away with all his force and the cheap fabric snapped. He held it clenched in his fist. He held it there, his arm tense. He wanted to get up, he wanted to smash his knuckles into the glossy hardwood floor.
He closed his tired eyes. He took a deep breath. His hand loosened. The black tie fell away. He took a deep breath. He climbed out of his jacket. He kicked his polished shoes off, somewhere. He bent down, his eyes still closed. He undid his buckle and tossed it off. He dug himself from his pants.
He sat in his white undershirt, his clear boxers, and tube socks. He was hungry, but tired, so he laid back and settled in his pillow and sheets. What was the color of his walls, bare and white, the shine of his kitchen overhead light. He held his eyes closed and all there was, black.
"Is this life?"