Stuck
descriptors of stillness
The window was open. Just an inch or so. And light was streaming through it along with a loud but soft breeze. It whipped past the open pane without entering the room, bypassing it to speed down the crowded street, deeper into the city, and just barely moving the tips of her hair every minute or so.
The sun streaked across her lap, shadows painting her legs in grey bars, her legs imprisoned in the chair by the light.
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