I look through the trees at the glass windows. They are flaxen, though man-made, an architectural sun if there ever was such a thing. When I stare at the actual sun, the act negates itself; my stare is forbidden by unmitigated admittance. All possibility of future sight is left in shambles if I choose all potential sight in situation. The windows don't fare much better in terms of accommodation. The reflecting gold is so viscous that I am only left with an image of myself and outside surroundings, though the purpose of windows is to see through a priori. The teleology of the windows have become subordinate to contemporary aesthetics.