Some homes are well-lit, where the bright white bulbs radiate an insistent illumination on every corner and bower; and upon immediately entering it strikes you with a blindness that must have been like entering the world from the womb, with the exquisite fright and wonder I got as the darkness around becomes narrower until the body is thrust completely into the light with nothing else to feel but this. Or say, that for a stretch of time I am within it, the effect has on the eyes a surreal lens, only to be broken by leaving for the outside nighttime where even so, the impression would leave on me a reminiscent pang of ambivalence. I would frequently leave such a home, heavy with drink, the only events grounding me to life being the fact that I had left one place and must now go home to another, and the in-between moments of waiting, for a cab, to ensure the latter is fulfilled.
Embers, rekindled