The Sunburnt Seventh Floor Army

A revolution

 revolution is like sunrise on some apartment building floor, on some street swathed in darkness. The first beams strike through your bedroom window, and you bound across the floorboards to any and every scrap of paper that plagues your desktop; the words must be had, the words must be sunrises themselves.
You have not shaved
And you have not eaten
Nor have you properly read the morning paper so that you may ingest the events of this Tuesday
No, you already read the sunlight.
And so you rip the door from it's hinges and bolt yourself down the hallway with your mangled manifesto in hand!
"Sunlight, I have the sunlight!"
And in order, the other doors upon the floor are all damned from their thresholds.
You're dashing along this hall and the neighbors press outward with their own renditions, painting their walls and floors and ceilings and lamps and beds the same yellow
And in your wake the chalk-drawing street performers from 7E are dusting your path with a yellow talc.
The dancers and poets and artists and musicians of the seventh floor have assembled under the same warm ochre that is drying wet on the hands of the troops of the resistance.
Every room on that floor has inhaled the morning
And all the contemporaries turn to the sun asking with naked retinas, feeling the immersion that comes from the dying frenzy of the bleeding sunburst in the dead of morning.

Author's Note

Excuse the errors.