The Alchemist. (Written when I was 13.)

The alchemist.
He sits.
He waits.
He ponders.
He excitedly opens a huge dust covered book, runs his trembling finger down a page, then closes it - sadly, quietly.
The sun's rays, which peer through the small window at the top of the dingy room, become dimmer, dimmer.
The alchemist.
He sits.
He waits.
He ponders.