Now, as it has been for years, his world is a swirl of blacks and greys. Whites exist, but purity is far too rare that any basic shade be called white. He's come to see things this way, in his world of moving shadows. Adrian looks out his dirty glass window and sees silhouettes dancing in the glare of daylight. Faces are a memory, just like the voices that once spoke to him.
A nurse checks him over. He doesn't spare her a glance. His sight is fading far too fast to waste a moment of his precious vision. The glass of water clinks against his standing tray and he can hear silverware scratching against a plate. He can cut his own food, damnit.
The door closes softly behind the nurse and Adrian is left to his solitude and shadows. He lets his eyelids rest lightly, not quite closed, as he starts to drift into his private reverie. When he reaches the pearly gates, will they be shiny with technicolor shots, or will it just look grey, like everything else? Adrian lifts his fingers to the bridge of his nose, where his glasses had worn themselves a nook. He knows he doesn't need them, and he knows not where they've gone.
His fingertips caress the wrinkled skin that shades his fading eyes. He can feel it, and, for the time being, see it on his eyelids. It's just a small step on a ladder of little things he's learned to appreciate on his descent, or perhaps ascent, into blindness.