A solitary lamp lights the small efficiency I call my home making the far corners dim and secretive. The white drapes billow from the movement of the white ceiling fans. My friend from Lanzarote would call it the tierney of the color white. Miles Davis plays from a turntable in the corner, his chaotic trumpet oozing through the small, cramped quarters.  The dark, calico feline sprawls across the top of the sofa cushions, precariously positioned for an eventual slide that will disrupt her sleep. Outside, a thunderstorm growls refusing to give rain and, every so often, my eyes catch a flash of light sneaking through those white linen drapes.  By the time I look, its gone and any glance out the window proves fruitless as if that was the last bolt of the night.