There is charm about the breeze that flatters the curtains before me, letting them dance and billow and reflect a sun that tells me the day is drawing to a close, that a murky darkness is setting in- that the sky is drawing its own curtain and concealing itself slowly while it lets these little reminders tease my mind, just as these little breezes tease my curtain. Someone sneers, deep inside. 'It's not an omen, it's anything but' I retort, fanatically.

But then, I wonder if the sky is an overtly sentimental man or a conniving woman, like you - whether it's touch would keep or kill. The curtains waft into the room softly without response, the touch of a setting sun warming them into animation.

Still and liquid, my curtain becomes a grasp that cannot reach me, compelled by the wind of a closing day to bring some joy, some vivacity to my quiet, quiet room. The music blares on, meanwhile. I'm sad.