The wind cares not if the edges of the glass are sharp or smooth, nor if the gap is narrow or wide. It comes in with raindrops and the aroma of the trees that have seen fit to bloom. I watch out of the window some days. Other times I look in from the outside. Either way the chaotic edges frame picture in perfect definition, all I need to do is choose where to stand.
The edges of the broken glass were as the coastline of a small country, perhaps one long ago under the night sky, before the time of neon lights. The glass itself was a grey-brown, inviting the mind to see the settled dust even at a distance. Around it was the brickwork, perfect beneath the dirt of years and rising upward to the sky and cloud. It must have been abandoned for some time, a building waiting for a reason to remain standing.
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