Soon he would become homesick , sick of a home away from a home where coconuts danced all night. He would go to bed and not get up. To a bank of numbers and notes.
Small numbers run up to big ones where they swallow the small ones into a big sky of a billion numbers where light is distance , not sound. You keep a day book of numbers but your red ledger is quickly filled .Their figures enter steel cupboards where they would live for the night. You forget to take them out next day.
(upon the passing of a senior colleague in my Bank)
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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