I sigh inaudibly, and stare at the window letting in dim grey light; my head fixed in place, unable to turn to view the sole inhabitant of the room. Leaning forward out of the darkness surrounding my desk, I am aware of my own complete lack of movement, as I always am. Sometimes I wonder if it is odd to move, or odd to not. You always do, but my neck can only bend at someone else's will.
At least... at the best of times, that is true. But on days like these, when the shadows fill both your room, and your mind - from being bent this way and that by others - then, you cease to move.
Then I wonder at how uncaring and cold what little light that seeps through the glass is... And wait for you to remember that with merely the pressure of a finger on a switch, you can release my own. And perhaps it will help.