Life is easier where the walls are red [excerpt]

   "Beautiful, isn't it," she said softly, her eyes locked on the horizon. He cast a glance that way, wondering what is it she saw in the familiar angles of the city he knew like the backs of his hands, worn with living and ordinary. The rain kept pounding down, flattening her short hair and meandering down her cheeks, washing tears away. Her eyes shone with a weary kind of wonder, strikingly vibrant grey in the first rays of sun casting horizontally across the steady downpour. Her eyelids quivered in the bright light and raindrops, and she blinked several times to shake them from her eyelashes, looking at him. "Light is the most beautiful thing in this world. It only ever boils down to this; nothing would amaze without light to play its games with shadow over edges and borders." She turns pensive for a moment. "Music must be the only exception; the only thing that can be beautiful without light, and what a world would it be without music? We all as well could be blind."   He kept watching her, unsure if what he heard was a revelation or nonsensical babbling.

Excerpt from a short story I wrote today, having half-dreamed, half-imagined it two nights ago when drifting off to sleep and fantasizing about meeting Woodkid. Full text posted here.