Worn railings, wistful thoughts
The sun warms the alcove. On the corner of Sacramento Street and Massachusetts Avenue, the room fitted with two Victorian windows set perpendicular to each other makes me feel like I slumber in a treehouse. The windows are open. A light breeze flows through and mixes with the sweet smell of molasses bread someone bakes in the kitchen on the floor below. I hear friends talking and laughing on the front porch. An ashy smell indicates that a cigarette is lit. In the early morning, a tree outside the window throws faint rustling shadows onto the white ceiling. I try to capture them with a camera, but they are so pale as to be perceptible only to the human eye. The tree is more vibrant than its shadows. An early turner, it burns red while the others cling to their green. The room contains a fireplace, blocked off but framed by cracked...