Darkness. Blackness. Almost blackness. Something is emerging. Something is appearing, although I can't say what it is – something hardly visible..... This is the time, when the view through the window has no depth, as if there were flat props made of cardboard. But if I opened the window, the depth would come back. I think so. It must be the matter of air.... I think so.... Now it's not like that. Now it's different. This very special moment, the moment of flatness has gone. The world is no longer a paper cut. Oh, this is my favourite metaphor. I haven't found the better one so far. This one seems the most accurate. Yet it is not, because the world, this world beyond this window at this very moment is a few paper cuts overlapping each other. Now there is another very special moment. Now the paper cut has to be thrown away, it's rubbish of no value, now. Now the world, this world beyond this window at this very moment, which is not the time of more-black, less-black and navy-blue-black paper cuts, looks like a masterpiece of landscape painting. Local or not local? Water-colour? Oil? Or maybe sumi-e? This yellow, golden birch spotted by soft, wet, violet light of a sunbeam almost parallel to the ground. This fountain of almost leafless ash tree on the background of two stripes of woods, little bit misty..... or dusty? no, no, rather not, it looks like there's no road there – more probably swampy meadows, spongy mattress gurgling under trampling feet..... smoky? who could make fire so early? The earth is smoking, the earth is exhaling morning fogs, the ground is steaming. And above two stripes of wood, the lower one more dark and less matt than the upper one, the pastel sky. Yes. The sky is drawn with pastel crayons. I wonder how would this view look like if it was drawn with a pencil. How would the pencil deal with this ash tree so dishevelled and just awaken? And with this motionless cloud of golden birch leaves? And with silverish meadows emerging out of thick, dirty green old garden coat having holes here and there?
Put the sheet of paper back. Put the pencil back. Look. Just sit and look at. It's going to be ten times better than in the cinema.
It's an interesting idea: to travel and to collect windows. Not necessarily the hotel ones. Or only the hotel ones? Hotel windows are different than the home ones. A hotel window can be yours at least for a moment. A window in somebody's home will never be yours, even for a moment.