Sometimes sunshine streams through the windows,
like a tousled head of hair. Bright and solid light
that opens the room to dangling frames of dust.
The dust collects itself under the furniture.
Hiding, transforming, resisting change. It becomes
its own entity, its own statement. Gradually the dust
overcomes the sunshine and the room is again bleached
in bleakness. Voices are gradual, distant sounding, as they
try and survive in the ***** room. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows like a growing sense of doom.
Hard and harsh vibrancy that collides with the anticipation
of the occupants. They are uncertain how to proceed with
their daily routines. Like the dust, they collect themselves into
arbitrary points of views. Mangled intentions that are never
stated, but instead are felt like rotting fruit in a basket.
The smell permeates all areas of reality as it dominates the
passion of the souls. They moan in obligation. They whine in
muted patterns of surrender as they whip around the room
like the dust floating painfully in the air. Sometimes sunshine
streams through the windows, like a bloated body in water.
The beginning of the race always promises to have an ending.
The ending always promises to begin again. But the room will
always stay as it is, dust and doom its statement to the world.
And, sometimes, sunshine streams through the windows.