For being a stack of cinderblocks there is something artful about my home. It comes from the way the light fall in it. The setting sun throws yellow in the western windows leaving sad squares that shrink as the day dies. The skylight traces a circle around the court daily. One could mark time by it’s rays, like the pantheon in Rome. The north windows are always a white light, never lit by moon nor sun. Only one room escapes the daily play of Moroccan light, the raining rocks and knives of its fierce sunshine. The inner bedroom has no windows to the outside world, no portals of luminescence.
It’s a great place to take a nap.