splinter

The strange winter sun went nowhere. Meaning it did not shine, or at least did not shine to where it could be seen, to where it could light the room and the world Jonathan found that morning. It was a strange winter sun.

Screen

There was only a buzzing through the speaker where once there had been a voice then came a kind of whisper inside the machine, a rasping syllable that may have meant something to some other machine, but not to him. To him is was only noise, only the nothing of circuits continuing along a straight of time closed to him. He threw his drink toward the screen and the lights went out. Fuck it, he said.