workspace

My ornate desk, from which I work, consists of two pieces of plywood stretched across a tabletop, then glazed over with magazine cutouts. Durable, functional, but mostly, cheaply and artfully, compiled. It is here that I get the best glimpses of myself, the most mundane random dribbles to blog about, in between punching down the keyboard clicks of a next article.

Thoughts press like ice cubes against my lips, when they are too naive to come to conclusion they evaporate, like a glass of water in desert heat, like the undoing of burdens held in my bones, like a glass of bourbon on Hemingway's desk. The thoughts evaporate, and exactly then, is when I know, it is time to pull out all of the papers from my trash can, smooth out the wrinkles in the sketch of my words, hurl a pencil between my teeth, and then, ponder such...suddenly, from the mayhem of my mind, words begin whispering to me from the walls. I pluck them out, place them down, and gain some ground.