The old man,
aged around sixty,
is as grim as a graveyard on a cold misty night.

He stares into oblivion;
seeming to think hundreds of thoughts simultaneously.

His hair is as grey as the silver pocket watch
he is cradling with his left hand.

His skin
is white as a blizzard in mid-January.

He bends forward a bit,
but sits tall and proud like a lion overlooking his kingdom
his right hand resting on his table;
covered with paperwork,
seems clenched but relaxed.

His tailcoat is crumpled;
the result of many nights of not sleeping
his beard,
growing longer and longer.

He sits in the comfort of his office,
filled with books he's read many, many times
on a chair he's been sitting on for four years
on a woven carpet,
made just for him.

He remembers his paperwork
and begins writing with his parchment pen
Thinking
“Tomorrow's a big day…”