Test of Word

There once was a man, he was your neighbor, he also lived in 1820 near the ocean in Marseille.  He lived in a one bedroom condo, three flights up from the street.  From his living room window he could see the water between two buildings, the view was held in a slight sliver of space that the man deeply cherished.  The buildings across the street from him were pale in color.  To an average viewer this is of no consequence, but to the man it was paramount.  Repetitiously viewing the nothing of painted cement buildings had made him an expert as he grew accustomed to their form.  He acquired knowledge on the size and shape of the windows, two feet across, three feet high, three inches deep.  He had time to consider that these windows were the best part of the building, highlighting the absents of the neighbor from the sight of the man and from himself in the space created by the window for the bodiless neighbor to think.  The room in the room grew in size when, delightfully highlighted by the gape of the window, it bleed forth that which held the strangers in those rooms, giving them a momentary pause, when they might slip out of the visual nature of actions and into the private space that defined them, a time when something came over them, reflection, then illumination, found inside the walls of the room because of the window.  All the man could see were the frames that might guide the neighbors to these thoughts, the math and structure, the portals architecture housing an imagined need curling up of the mind, the neighbors speak to themselves.  Anti-production, seemingly silent to any watcher, your neighbor, that man you lived next to, back then, in a different time was the keeper of this observation, as he tried to glare out to the shore through the crack, but found only his curiosity about what lay inside the rooms across the street.  The preventative walls that kept him inside the outside of a window once.