A man faces a window. Streaks of light cross sky, skip through glass and illuminate his face. A bolt of brightness holds his glance, blinding him momentarily. He is confronted by the room, the borders of the corners, its straightness. The light, aggressive in the pursuit to intrude, reveal speckles of dust, little particles that wistfully float. A breath pushes them spinning. He sucks in his lip, biting the bottom and tries not to breath. Holding the air until the dull base hits just behind the ears; the sound becomes interior. He hears his body. Leaning against the glass, the weight of his head rests against his forearm. The palm of his hand marks the pane. He looks outside and catches himself, doubled.