Diorama
In my new neighborhood, people leave their curtains open at night so you can look in their windows and admire their color schemes and sconces and $200 pieces of coral used to accentuate their coffee tables and bookshelves.
Everyone locks their doors but leaves their windows gaping like mouths, so you can hear exactly what they’re watching on television as you walk by.
Women weep openly from second and third stories, waiting to be seen or heard.
Men pace naked in their street level living rooms, unable to see beyond their own reflections in the windows.
In my second floor walk-up, I leave my own curtains open and sit by the window as I listen to voicemail–no discernible voices or personalized messages, just background noise recorded at an outdoor concert many miles away.
