as is if the window within the frames of its hubris only allowed light to traverse in to the web corners and neglected nooks of its house. the window pain seizes the wayward light, the blue light scattered by heavens bow. A celadon sea spray made of photons and not scattered water. The hue that be called blue that vibrates too slow- leaving its troughs like heavy feet upon the clouds. Arriving in multiple transparencies that strangle the darkness until its mutilated then abandoned into the expanse called night. Window is a trap that secures the luminescence that is the radiation ransacking and rampaging the day becoming the radiance off lamps, fires, unsupported moons and the braggadocios’of young suns that if saved from lusterless bluster remain at core but young stars preparing for the fighting of the night. And light in its glee is all too ready to be felled by a limbless contemplation that once was sand: the aggregate of earths weak lessening when it turns too many times around itself.

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