I can hear screaming outside my window again, the same drunken idiots staggering out of the pub at some ungodly hour of the morning, just opposite my window. If the eyes are the window to the soul, do my eyes looking out beyond this pane of glass show me the soul of the world? Is this small square image just a fraction, one colour in a broken prism, or is it a microcosm of all that is? When I hear the clinking rattle of a tumbled beer bottle, do I hear the axis of the earth sent spinning?
There’s a girl standing there, mascara smudged all round her eyes, giving her a look more punch than her drink, the only smoky look now being that of the cigarette fumes curling up from inside her boyfriend’s hand. She’s laughing so hard she’s almost sick, and she’s spilt lager all down her front. I wonder which part of the world she represents? The part that isn’t afraid to laugh at herself, or the part that despairs so wholly that everything becomes amusing? I hope that whichever part it is, I never go there. I think I’ll leave off travelling the world, and sit behind my window where the light glances in, giving me my reflections.
I can’t decide if the light I’m seeing is white.
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