IN AN IMMACULATELY MINIMAL ALL-GREY BEDROOM, HE WOKE to the mechanical blinds drawing up, still, they let in an amber glow in the pale early light. A warmth, in such an icy room. Naked, he walked painstakingly towards it; the heat. The soft robotic hum of the veils quietly making way for the Day. With respect, he thought. He hated the Day. Always had, actually. Approaching the huge rectangular windows with now only the sound of the tiny moisture left under his feet, as a faint reminder of his last nightmare, to break the utter silence, he pressed his palm to the pane. As he approached his still-shut eyes slowly towards the light, he sensed the power of the sun lighting up his world, physically, jolting his nerves. It stung but oh how powerful, how impressive, he thought. He saw across an infinite city basking in deep ochre smog, a neon orange sky weighed down, or perhaps enhanced by the now-permanent tropical climate; scrappers with no end points, yet not a single electrical light. Not on a building, not on a plane, not a single light.

His vision shifted for a moment and he started staring at the dirt directly on the surface of his glass. And he noticed a thin beige shroud, that explained the radiance in the room. He looked closer, really analyzing its patterns. The canopy was filled with crisscrossing stripes of loam, creating a weaved vertical net. A wonder in chaos and natural architecture. As if it were organic. Alive. An unexpected protector.

They had stopped cleaning windows altogether over a century ago.

He wondered why she left him, wiped his eye and started his Day.

alex_colville_1967_pacific

#Pacific1967

#cantsomebodysaycantsomebodytell?


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