It is Noon on a Saturday.
Everything is quiet. The cat sleeps soundly. The plants stretch toward the window glass. Blankets drape effortlessly. Pillows hunch together for warmth. The light, diffused, soft, comforting.
You'd never know the world was falling apart.
In our heads, in our hearts.
The snow that silently fell outside this morning gave everything the feeling of living inside a snow globe. Only the snow is outside. We live in the dollhouse within the glass bubble, crafted by the hand of an unseen artisan. And that's no metaphor for Creation. Do not be confused.
The world outside is tilted.
Is it the bubble, knocked off its base on the mantle of the gods, that skews the outside? Or is it the outside world itself that leans and veers off somewhere we can't see from here, whence the wind comes?
The snow has already gone. Melted. The Sun, though weak today, is still the Sun.
The quiet is broken. People stomp overhead. Who are our neighbors in this Doll's House?
Who will be the first to walk out, and slam the door?