In the dark cube of the night, one rectangular cutout permits a regulated ray of grey. It is weak and succumbs to the dominating volume of the dark cube. It staggers and falls before it can pierce the cube. Angry red dots stare at me, wanting to be green; to be able to blast the black out of existence with light and sound.

Outside, various night sounds make their way. A gurgling crow, a distant aircraft, late vehicles and an innocent tinkle of a cyclist’s bell.

In this dead night, a life wafts through. Because only light can define surfaces.