Fantasy for Solitude

But the outside of the window is not open sky.
Dirt-yellow brick wall is two meters outside the window frame.
The Outside is how the wall looks like.

Dirt-yellow brick wall is
the Textile Town, where grandma used to live:
fallen bricks of workers’ dormitory compound,
and the empty factories once packed.
Later these abandoned walls sticked posters,
providing renting and ID applications services,
witnessing plenty of people still going in and out.

By the end of the day, light, is not for everyone.
Learning from basement dwellers to repeat
the gesture of looking up,
Pulling and pushing the memory,
extracting light from inside the brain,
imagining,
warming.

Why buildings are so close to one another?
Light cannot penetrate through.
Luckily, what reluctantly spills in,
is the bounced spare light off metal frames from that side,
impoverishing,
punishing.

Brick wall then becomes my only imagination.
The wall on the other side absorbs light that cannot shine in,
So, I will hide under one corner of the window,
having peeked the wall on the other side,
and this would be enough…