The nearing

I left the window open, and at night the wind woke me up. Then I lay in bed listening to the waves of the leaves roaring in the courtyard. It felt as if I wasn’t in a nine-story building made of glass and concrete located in the very center of the city, surrounded by the same immovable and ever-present glass-and-concrete structures, but in a flimsy cardboard house on the ocean shore. And this little house was about to be carried away to the land of Oz. The room was warm, yet the air felt surprisingly fresh. And in this agitation of nature, one could already feel the onset of the cold weather’s coming, the nearing of the breaking point. When the wind suddenly stopped, I thought I had gone deaf. And then I realized I could still hear the hands of an invisible clock, steadily ticking on the old television and, as if nothing had happened, diligently counting each moment of my solitude.