That evening, I lay, my windpipe the breadth of a drinking straw. My pulse was thumping in my ears, yet my eyelids, curiously, closing.
I watched, unmoving, the sky, as it changed from blue to yellow ochre, then to a streaked burnt sienna and scarlet, which quickly gave way to indigo.
I didn’t bother getting up to switch on a light; I merely watched.
I watched, unmoving, wondering, whether the uproar within had finally conquered. It left me not only unmoving, but also unmoved, by the silent revolution before me.