The opening of I Can Touch the Walls, one of the short stories in Cracks in the Ceiling by Dave Cornford...
The shadow of the window and the bars is climbing up the wall. I've turned the light off so I can watch it. The edge of the shadow has gone soft while the sun struggles futilely against its nightly captivity.
I'm keeping perfectly still, so there's no momentum in the room. The swirls and eddies in the air are unwinding, allowing tranquillity to settle. It seems to increase the volume of the space ten-fold.
Distant sounds speak of the lives others are living. The screech of tyres must be some p-plate fool going out for another night of Russian roulette on the road. I can almost hear his mum at prayer. She should probably arrange a malfunction of the Grand Theft Auto game disc, just to be sure.
It's colder now. Lovely. A comforting shiver glances through my shoulders. The walls didn't absorb the heat of the day, and they're close enough to draw heat out of my face. Only old solid walls can do this for you; the brick veneer of the suburbs can't provide this type of comfort when it's needed.