The light in an upstairs window suggests a life you will probably never know.

Every lit window is a whole life running at the same time as yours, with its own weather and its own difficult week. You will never learn any of it, and yet noticing that it exists changes something in how you move through a street. Most of the world is like this: enormously detailed, entirely out of view, going on without needing your attention.

Walk somewhere in the evening and let yourself register the windows without inventing stories about them. It is a quiet corrective to the sense that your own concerns are the main thread of the place you live in.