Behind me the city happens in whitenoise and progressive greyscale.
"'Tis but a day" bustling away, 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, humming away 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 in shadowplay flitting across the bedroom wall. For "I am half-sick of shadows"...