Fahad0850

I dreamt I was an architect, a handful of doubts and corrosive intellect. The clock tower has the most lonely view of the industrial sunrise, rising like the old Indian song inside. From where I sit, sunlight drips like honey fresh from the earth over concrete elegance. Sometimes autumn feels like winter. Once a classy hotel and now an urban puzzle, consumed by kudzu creeping all along the broken windows, choking the windchimes. How do cities understand what soul sings behind their windows? There’s so many different suns desperate to connect; the light through a dirty windshield; the sun in an empty room; something ordinary