The other morning I took the trash out to the curb before I left for work. In the eastern sky the moon and Venus were shaking hands, standing on a ground of orange, under a veil of blue. The houses across the street were dark; no one was up but me.
It is not a very interesting street. No historic homes, just cheap-but-expensive suburban houses. All variations on two or three plans, old enough to a bit worn out, mostly made over a time or two, but neither quaint nor fashionable.
I don't see inside the houses; I imagine that inside they are much like they are outside, that nothing wild or strange or brilliant or fantastic is to be seen in them. But they are all perfectly fine, respectable houses, different enough from one another but not too different. At night they are illuminated from within, like the sky that morning, blue and orange. The blue emitted by the television, the orange by the electric lights.
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