Colorings of a bruise that is now the sky. A sheet of black overridden with blue tinge. Starless void pulled into itself.
Beneath it stands a house with a window that bleeds ochre light, as seen through a slit fifty paces far formed between a thin slit of two gauze curtains that stand guard to stave any light from passing through these windows anonymous, that let you peek outside but keep the world a hidden enigma within.
Often a glimpse of passing red meteor whispers through the threadbare sky, sometimes an orange bleeping light traveling silent far off above another world of windows.
An anathema to a carpet of silver coins glittering high above are these lights, from sources millions. Imitation plasma in comfortable surroundings of convenient lives.
This lone window, that stays dead throughout the day and stays illuminated throughout the night, soulless and quiet. Unruffled and unperturbed by any existence within.
Stare as you might, there'nt be the merest shadow of a flicker.
Perhaps this window breathes on its own. Aware of its own existence in this universe, assuming a role it was meant to play in the scheme of things. Turning on and off by itself. Dead and calm, lit up under a giant bruise.
Unknown to the stars that is mimics their twinkle and isolation.
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