Speckles of dust hit the pane and roll off down in with the rest of the rain. Rivulets snowball with sand salts, scratching at the glass with the kind of stroke a deaf mute pays attention to.
Scratch hard enough and the surface breaks open, exposing the glorious secrets underneath. Glorious secrets, however, not always forthcoming and the promise of it being glorious, only in name and expectation.
Secrets? Well, yes, there's many of those. Only in context. And context is everything to nothing that makes anything a little worthwhile.
Worthwhile in the sense that value is more than the grade of transparency as the eyes stare longingly into the sun as the dust kicks up again and storms a channel into the ears.
Written on Wednesday, 14 February 2007