Thankful for glass, he sits by this window. Sunshine streams in; snowflakes can't enter. Plant shadows defy the cold on the other side of panes. They heal paint-flaking walls, conceal this truth: their servant is dying.
But so are they. They bloom in one last frenzy, casting doubt on the darkness of eternity... as if their short lives mattered.
Dust motes and one desperate fly. Why would anyone want to flee this spot. Sun warms the empty cocoon inside. Outside, sunshine does what it can, casting light and shadow on all the living, the dead and the freed.
He sits by this window sharing thoughts cold glass cannot read.
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