Foreground: The splash splattered sun against the hazed glass.
The screen a grid of wire, if you move close enough it dissapears.
Paint chipping, mummified insects sleeping in the eternal breeze.
The glass is streaked, layers of windows
Middle-ground: A servery worker wanders to and fro, pacing back and forth.
The grills are out and open and the cooks are joking,
There is a sad routine to it all.
Trees, and island.
Mountains — a universe of ____, the rest of the world — outside the filmy shell of our bubble.