The chair is magenta insomnia,
the jacket a small private ocean.

A man sits, half-coffee, half-question mark,
typing on a glowing slice of midnight.

The lamp pours yellow thoughts
straight onto the table,
industrial sunshine on demand.

Each keystroke is a tiny earthquake,
rearranging the furniture of reality.

The screen says: working,
the shoulders say: wandering.

Outside, time does its grey scribbles,
inside, colors negotiate a truce.

This is not a workplace,
it’s a quiet experiment:

how many pixels of light
does a human need
to keep talking to his own shadow
and call it writing.