You walk down a street after sunset. Most of the windows are lit. One is still dark; you find yourself expecting someone to come home.
It's the same street you've walked every day after work. The same dog barking in a yard. The familiar smell of cut grass. The continuous weight of rubber soles on asphalt, and occasionally, leaves that have fallen away, or a pebble. In the twilight, nothing is seen. Just shadow shapes. Empty forms.
On the banks of the Ganges, the Buddha once asked a group of listeners to examine a lump of foam on the river. He likened it to our bodies. Feeling, he is said, is like a water bubble. Perception: a mirage. And consciousness? A magic trick.
Here on the street, small changes are taking place without waiting to be seen. The paint loosens a little more. The faucet turns on. A person has gone upstairs. Behind the glass, the room is now empty.
The night keeps going. You keep walking.
And tomorrow?
There may be something to do. Someone to meet.
A window glows behind you.