In a pale light of an awaiting evening, a fan is going slow and lazy.
The hotness seems impossible to bear and the glass window is definitely too dirty.
Dust is everywhere: on teh books scattered on the floor, on the old table full of holes, and on my unhappy face that gains light from a tiny wrinkle on the front door.
I stand up by the wooden table, sipping iced tea and looking through the eyes of my house.
Shadows on the ceiling can fright me like anything in the world.
The faint light inside here is so far from the glittering time in town.
