Evening

I've come back home again, earlier than I expected. The house is as quiet as always, and there is a draft of cool air surrounding the living room. Little strands of piano seeps through the crack on the door to the study. Philip Glass' metamorphosis again. I never get tired of it.

The orange-like hue surrounds the darker places by the window, the sound of piano seem to drift around the light, and I get a momentary sensation that the light is wandering around the room like the air. In the distance I can hear the jumbles and bustles of cars and people moving about, but no talking.

Maybe I'll eat an orange tonight.