A shifting haze of thousands of little black and white grains of light turns in a secret wind, and in it my eyes attempt to trace a shape. What could I be seeing in and amongst the empty movements? A tower, I think, or a monolith. It is a vast, tall thing, defined against the other static by a certain heavier greyness, more black specks closer together.
Gradually colour seeps into the ruined image, and I see tiny windows. I imagine the rooms beyond the windows, not silent as the image is but filled with furtive movements, days of labour passing in quick succession. I am watching years in seconds, or seconds in years. Time is not the same within as it is without. There is no perspective to the mind.
I turn off the television and go to bed. Several hours later, I awaken and return to my position.
Same view. There it is night.
Perhaps I was mistaken.
So there you are.
P.S. Formatting is an evil art...
