the windows are open.  wide open.

between the spaces exposed where tinted glass is not present, kyung can see the velvet sky stretching endlessly for miles and miles and miles, further than he has ever gone.  despite the city ablaze with artificial lighting, he closes in on stars faintly glowing high up above, defying mankind’s brutal invasion.  they’re barely visible, but they’re there.  they have always been there.

by the time you see stars they are dead.

how cliché stars are, a smile dances in unnatural curves across chapped lips, tugging playfully at the corners, but how very, very apt.  like them mere mortals, stars come and go, leaving behind a spark in the night, sequins decorating plain canvas for limited fractions long after they have ceased to exist.  self-destructive.  lilting notes of a familiar song (… flaming flowers that brightly blaze… look out on a summer's day…) almost hums itself, creeping into the crisp air, breathing evanescence fog above his still being –

where there’s smoke there’s fire.

but ignited flames only last the night, extinguished by day or by wind’s will.  flickering out with soundless splutters, leaving behind ashes that were not its own.  borrowed from the gods for which an eternal punishment was exchanged.  lids pull down halfway, minimizing the world kyung inspects through halfhearted slits: silhouette cityscapes merging into one another, opaque glass panels reflecting omens, foreshadowing unavoidable sacrifices.  insignificant man-made structures belittling, looming over, cruelly laughing at self-important insignificance.  purpose created unto itself.  in the end,

this too shall pass.

curtains flutter, flirting with the breezes that find their way in – it isn’t hard to.  fancy new material brushes his icy skin, a mother’s, a lover’s, a child’s hand hesitant in uneven surface, equally cold fingers skipping across ridges and dips, offering him a game of hopscotch instead.  kyung’s gaze flickers back to enclosure, dismissively sweeping past gaudy paper imitations stuck against crude paint.  walls press in on him, invisible claws snaking forward for strangulation, oppressive threats.  inhale.  exhale.  inhale.  exhale.  stick arms pull him up, bit by bit, inching slowly but surely towards proof of i’m perfectly fine physique.

up, up and away.

the windows are open.  wide open.