Numb, withdrawn, sits a boy of seven, under the tainted light of aged halophosphates. The silence of the room only broken by the intermittent hum of a heater, corroded with age. The hushed arguing of men behind a glass door. The pink ceiling, darkened and yellowed by decades of Soviet tobacco giving way to green walls of rough plaster and a patchwork mosaic of tail laid over a slanted floor. Utterly void of life except for the slowly dying ember of a grey market Kent, lit long ago, but otherwise untouched. Normally such wastefulness was frowned upon. But the general haste of everyone involved made it an excusable offense. How no one managed to pilfer the abandoned cigarette was anyone's guess. The trail of ash unbroken as it sits on a shard of silver backed mirror. A small glass of water on a stack of books, lays reserved for the child, but is otherwise forgotten in his wondering mind. With only his thoughts to accompany him in shallow boredom, he thinks of things in a child eye. Though on the other side of that door was a matter more adult in contrast.
11/9/24