You can clearly see the dark wrath of the skies, grey, almost forcing you to stare at them.
Looking out my back window you see how the long trees are firmly planted on the ground, rising high hoping to detach themselves from green earth.
Between every few trees you see red roofs of old cube looking houses that look fairly renewed. Even far away the sharp bricks draw perfectly cracked squares built one on top of the other.
Between every few bricks a bigger empty square, and within every square a waving hand, a woman smiling or rapid shadows of two young boys playing football inside the little yellow shape.
One of the people in the little yellow squares can probably see me too, as I appear, a shadow in another slightly bigger yellow square.
If you look carefully with one eye and squint with the other, you can see three tall figures, all walking on the same path, one after the other, and if you listen closely you can almost hear their steps, next to a gas station that hasn’t seen a visitor for days, its lights dimmed and mostly broken, flickering when the darkness of nightfall overshadows the bulbs’ lustre.
Looking out my window you see daylight, but if you’re willing to stay a little while longer while we drink some tea, you’ll get to see the outside in a navy blue wrapping, almost black. Piercing through that blackness are little specks of light, as blurred as they appear, accompanied by a big white circle hovering on top the moving painting that is my back window, actually bring light into the inside.
And if you’re lucky enough to come by on one of those days where it looks like perfection itself brushed its fingers through the clouds directing them from left to right, with orange and yellow colors covering its fingertips, then don’t hesitate to come by.