Across from my room

At night, across the street from my room, the second floor of the homestay pulses red. All night, and I assume, all day. Because the house has tall slit-like windows that remind me of eyes, I can’t help but feel that the home is somehow angry, a cauldron of pulsing emotion - the haunting of hill house. Likely, though, it’s the shrine to Buddha that I often see in the homes and businesses of Hoi An, pulsing with life. 

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