This is how the morning explains itself: with blocks of color stacked into a harmless little city, and a single dark well among them like the mouth of a silence.
I was given a room, mild blue, obedient light. Through the blurred air the corners fail, as if the day has grown tired of being exact. Each chamber keeps a small center, a tender watchpost; from afar they look cheerful, but up close they seem to breathe, patient and resigned.
There is always the black one. It invites nothing and forbids nothing. It only gathers the names of things until the mouth is empty.
I tried to slide my room nearer to another, but our edges mingled and I lost the boundary I was expected to keep. Specks drift between us like letters that never learned where to go. By evening the colors surrender into one pale weather, and I understand: this city is not a city, the rooms not rooms, only the excuses of a heart unsure how to be seen.
So I sit where two shy colors touch and wait for someone to call me by the right brightness.
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