The stone is rough in this constant chill, a stone painted white so a single flame might bring warmth.
It’s calm down here in the quiet and dark with nary a trickle of light finding its way in from outside.
It’s all reflections and shadows from walls and feet as I am left to go about my business.
The world passes by each day never the wiser, as so very many look to where they are and up to towers in the sky, where they all wish to be.
Yet seldom do they look below to where their feet truly fall. For though they might look down upon all which is below them, without it they would all fall.
Never do simple folk seem to grasp just what holds their world up.
I would look out that window if ever I cared, but I busy myself with a single warm flame to hold up what they take for granted, for now.
A prompt response.