In the evenings as I walk along the street I find myself looking into the illuminated, shadeless windows. I see cozy rooms full of leather couches with plush throws on the backs and candles burning on the window ledges that are dotted with picture frames. I see a woman standing in her kitchen who appears to be baking something. What is she baking, I wonder? And who is she baking it for? What is her name and what is she like? I continue onward and see a man sitting cozily on a lavish high back chair with what appears to be a cat on his lap. He is reading a book by lamplight and I wonder, what is he reading? Is he into philosophy? Novels? Poetry, perhaps? What is his cat’s name?

Is it creepiness, loneliness, or sheer curiosity that makes me wonder these things? I fiddle with my keys and manage to open the two dreaded locks to get into my building and climb the stairs to Flat 1. I turn on the lamp in my living room and plop down onto the couch. I glance over at the three, large bay windows to my right and wonder if anyone passing by is peering through my illuminated, shadeless windows wondering these things about me.


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