6:42 again. Strange, he thought. For as long as he can remember he had always woken up at 6:42. He never had his alarm set for the time or anywhere near it. He wasn't trying to wake up. 6:42 seemed to be observing him, and it never seemed to lose interest. And in some strange way, it comforted him.

He flipped his lights on and squinted. It had been happening for over eight months. No matter what pills he took or how late he went to bed, his internal clock always prevailed.

He wasn't angry, wasn't tired, but he felt helpless.

His name was Oden. He lived on the sixth floor of an old apartment building with a balcony overlooking the city. The view was nice, but the neglected projects took away from it all. The city was odd, the sidewalks almost always deserted and the streets seemingly devoid of all noise. And at night, the stereotypical neon signs and flashing lights were replaced with a quiet far away hum of the city's factories producing steel.

For as long as he can remember, graffiti covered almost every wall of every building, and windows were cracked on floors up high. Oden often wondered why the city never bothered fixing it up. Despite the eerie emptiness, the citizens seemed happy enough, always with a smile and a friendly greeting. They would nod and say hello while passing in the hallway, always appearing busy with something.

Everyone seemed hollow, as though an actor. Oden didn't mind. It was those friendly encounters that kept him going. Or perhaps it was the prospect of finding something better.

He picked himself up and walked from his bedroom to another room. His small television was hanging on his dirty blue wall, and was turned off as usual. There was an old grey couch that seemed small, awkwardly placed in the middle of the room. It was dirty and faded. He felt he should replace it, but he hardly used it anyway. He was never in the room. He found it amusing that they called it a living room, because he hardly lived in it at all. However, his most prized possession was in this room. His rectangular crystal chamber was lying on the desk and he absolutely cherished it.

It was the only reason he entered his room. It took him to a world of mirrors. What was it like to see the world through the eyes of a glass cage, segregated from all the discomfort and awkwardness of life? He would have to know, he needed an answer; there was nothing as essential. He thought for a moment and then sat down on his couch.

He stared into the black abyss of his television. That was the only show he really liked anyhow.