Sometimes sunshine streams through the windows, br like a tossled head of hair. Bright and solid light br br br that opens the room to dangling frames of dust. br The dust collects itself under the furniture. br br Hiding, transforming, resisting change. It becomes br its own entity, its own statement. Gradually the dust br br overcomes the sunshine and the room is again bleached br in bleakness. Voices are gradual, distant sounding, as they br br try and survive in the dirty room. Sometimes sunshine br streams through the windows like a growing sense of doom. br br Hard and harsh vibrancy that collides with the anticipation br of the occupants. They are uncertain how to proceed with br br their daily routines. Like the dust, they collect themselves into br arbitrary points of views. Mangled intentions that are never br br stated, but instead are felt like rotting fruit in a basket. br The smell permeates all areas of reality as it dominates the br br passion of the souls. They moan in obligation. They whine in br muted patterns of surrender as they whip around the room br br like the dust floating painfully in the air. Sometimes sunshine br streams through the windows, like a bloated body in water. br br The beginning of the race always promises to have an ending. br The ending always promises to begin again. But the room will br br always stay as it is, dust and doom its statement to the world. br And, sometimes, sunshine streams through the windowsbr br Chris G.