The city happens
In whitenoise and progressive greyscale.
"'Tis but a day",
Sliding down the gradient of hours,
Flipping listlessly through the chapters of daylight,
Settling at last in two orange rectangles
On the wall opposite my bed:
A glowing proof, a sign of life.
Of someone's life,
Frame by frame,
Through lace curtains in antique windowpanes,
Around half-eaten dinners
And paper-strewn desks.
Yes, it's a curious thing
To observe: the slow close of day
Flitting across the bedroom wall.
For "I am half-sick of shadows"...
My bed faces away from the window. I've been lying here for a few hours now, and it struck me how easily the world faded away these past few hours, and how little things like the change in light, the rumble of cars passing in the street, or the occasional sound of a voice registered in my awareness these past few hours. I looked up at one point, and noticed the light shining through my window from across the street.
"Hmm, wonder whose window that's coming from?"
Between that brief return to consciousness of the surrounding world, and the arrangement of the room, the realization reminded me a bit of Plato's Cave: sitting facing the wall, hearing the sounds and watching the shadows of the world dance across the wall in front of you, and yet the existence of the objects behind the shadows does not register.