What do we see when looking out a window? A painting, perhaps? Our eyes focus light, bending what’s reflected onto a canvas of retinas, etching into biology as nerves feed pixels to the mind, turning shapes and colors into forms, meaning. So yes, a painting, of life, with panes that set us apart from a watercolor world. We cannot touch. We cannot feel. We only see, unattached, as it waltzes by, clicking and clacking along rails, one direction, forward or backward depending on how we sit. It’s there for us, just outside. Waiting. Framed. All you must do is open it.