clarissa

And now it is evening. The sun is a twisting ball of glass. It dips into the prismatic furnace. The sharp light bursts forth in sprays, falling through the windows and onto the marble tiles in slanted  rectangles. A woman appears from around the corner at the end of the hallway. She clasps in her hand a small book. Her progression down the corridor is marked by the regular, light clicking of her heels against the floor. She passes through the oblong jewels, flaring up into burnished orange, muting blue when she moves into shadow. She turns into a doorway. The sound of her footsteps, ascending a stairwell, echo down into the corridor.