At five the light comes in sideways and the room becomes another one. The same walls, the same table, a colour that was not there before.
We live in a living room on the third floor, with a single window facing west. In the morning it is any room: you pass through, have a coffee, go out. It is in the afternoon that it starts to do something.
The sun goes down and rests on the wall opposite. The plaster warms up, first yellow, then orange. The shadows of the plants stretch to the floor and stay there, still, for almost an hour.
It is the moment we light a stick. Not for any particular reason: because the day has changed pace and the room noticed before we did.
