The windows of this world, we stand behind or in front to look in or see out. When the rain descends the world becomes distorted. On a clear undulating canvas wavering shapes, colors bleeding into the spectrum. ghosts of someone we may know. I think of all the privacy framed by windows, inviting the known and unknown into our rooms, lives. I think of all the lives lived without windows at all, inviting no one inside. A window can also be a mirror reflecting a world beyond hungry eyes, surprised when they see the bounty before them. From across the street he is seen distorted in rainswept windows, no longer the beggar framed inside his isolation he is color, he is the spectrum of light.