Window glasses

Window glasses cry every night it rains. Trickling water-drops soak the windowsill while the glass melts down in cold fury. The transparent being covers itself by moist; it's always cold when window glasses cry. Although I'm cringing in the blankets on my bed, I can still feel my limbs hardening from low temperature. The thoughts of the day after tomorrow keep pulling under. I wish the bed can sink my body into the mattress.

The clock strikes three. I’m still in pain as blunt as blue bruises. My brain is pounding like others’ heart, when mine stays still. I got out of bed. I faced myself outside the window. Although transparent, it was wet with rain trickling down the glass.

Reluctant, I sat on the bed, by putting my feet on the floor. Facing the floor, I thought of the big and small mirrors around the room. They must reflect the wet and moist glass on the window. They must thus become wet and moist, just like myself.