Two windows

Currently in a flat on Townsend near the Ferry Building. There are two windows on both sides of my room, and on one of the sides, there’s a small balcony too. To my right I can see the Bay Bridge. I’m on the twelfth floor, and it seems that the bridge is just one floor higher than me. The bridge is made of quiet grey metal. It looks like a neat little toy box inside which small toy cars are zipping by.

This view only becomes clear at night, in the dark. The lights are on and the city is quiet and the bridge looks beautiful, as though hanging in air by some mysterious power, in a crown of light. With a stretch of imagination, it can look like the universe, where the bridge is the Milky Way, and the cars are planets and stars rushing past.

On the other side of my bed, to the left, I can see the bay and the top of some warehouses on the now unused pier. The bay is quiet and lovely. There aren’t many waves, and very few ripples. A few boats and yachts always cruise on the bay, and sometimes, you can see slowly circling birds on top. Sometimes you can hear the sound from a ship. In fact, at night, sound is the sum of all existence of the bay.

I also have two alternate views of the bridge and the bay. If I turn left, I can see a reflection of the bridge on the glass panes of the balcony. The glass is a little hazy, and it’s a light grey color itself. In reflection, the bridge and the lights look all melted down into a mesh of grey and gold, with tinsel flecks of red and green and blue mixed in it. And on the window by the bridge, the bay gets reflected, and the blue of the water seeps into the grey of the glass. Reality and reflection meet and merge through the night.

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