How many scenes take place behind these walls?

You sit on your bus route, staring out of the window, and for the first time you take note of the vibrant colour set against grey. This block of flats looks just like a Mondrian painting, and you wonder how you never noticed. You look closer: someone walking past a window, a baby on her hip. You smile and ponder how many of these flats, how many of these blocks, how many hundreds of thousands of people are living in this city that you forget about. You know your own days intimately: your breakfast, your work, your parties, your private complaints.

And all of those other hundreds of thousands of people in this city have them, too, and you wonder what they are. At a red light you think about the details: are they all happy? Do they fight? Are they young? Do they see the intersecting squares, the colour, the way you do? Do the people with balconies hanging over head feel crushed, oppressed, or are they happy enough, just like you?