A chair, a table, a plant.
On the table, a fishbowl, in the corner of the room. It is the only sign of moving life. A shock of colour in black-and-white.
An itch that refuses to be dismissed, like a picture placed slightly tilted in an otherwise perfect room.
My forehead leans on the glass box, my eyes pressed against the surface.
A goldfish darts past, a bolt of sunlight. It doesn’t spare me a single glance. I am ignored; as it is ignorant of my existence.
I wonder which one of us is the slighted one here.
The world beyond those four glass walls is incomprehensible to it, only a distant dream, the faintest litany. My world ends with this tank.
The only difference between us is the side of the wall we stand on.
Water and air.
Every once in a while, it buts its head against the glass, striking…
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