It is 9 pm, and I am sitting on the tiny back porch (lucky to have it) meant for mops and buckets and brooms, and maybe a rag drying. O'm looking across to a very steep roof with a window set into it, two windows, actually, that I admire during the day because, small as they are they are full of green things climbing on the walls. It looks like a cosy place to live. But now the window that is set back into the small terrace is lit, a warm light, and I can see inside a wall of bookshelves and imagine someone sitting there reading, though all I can see is a lit corner with shelves full of books.
The picture I took is not very good: the street lights make streaks of white light.