[[[[[{{{—^—}}}]]]]]
There’s always one glowing window of the house. Only one. To have more would totally fail the house’s style. A standing, scattering noise face, with a single shape of auroral reference. She feels sensual, debauched in a good way, with just one window lit. Lately, the uppermost right, third and top story, from streetview, has been her favorite; two criss-crossing strips of dark wood zoning the four panes of emanant unsubstance, shining way above the ground. This corner spot hides its light from the rest of the home’s cast, and so also reveals how many of the slats and doors and balcony dead-botany are left in shadow, darkly wheeling down and to the side. The bulb inside, specialized and ordered from friends of deep-tunnel, lets on a kind white mist to something massing and revivingly detailed there, hidden in the rest of the building. There have been other windows attempted, for similar livering affects. For awhile, the house tried the small bathing window, halfway up the side-wall perpendicular to the street, the side-breast of her structure, but that just left a looming convalescent enigma in front, sans much mystery. The passerby took only to looking at the house when down the street, catching a lateral, albeit pleasing, site of the little footed window, evanescent and lonely. But the house is more confident from a straight-on angle; anyways, her flank is a little thick for comfort. Of course, the house chose settling in an abode of ocular void, a lot of total darkness, sunlight being possibly the most boring aesthetic, in her opinion. Plus, all her soily bulges make shadows under the sun that she really wishes she could thin out. The sun hasn’t come this side of the copse in years, assuringly. The top rightmost window feels perfect for now, with the moon’s multiplex and effects. Just enough letting on, a darting of the spires lifting with a tickle of bottomed-out light. And the black-and-white lantanas in this window’s flower box look delicious so a-lit. (more…)