Occasional essays, domestic anthropology, and studies in stillness
I occupy these quarters by mutual, unspoken arrangement. My tall, two-legged flatmate provides central heating, punctual porcelain bowls at 07:00 and 18:30, and an endless supply of cardboard shipping receptacles. In return, I supervise his posture at the desk, audit the hallway acoustics at three in the morning, and record these impartial observations on human folly.
For six consecutive hours today, my roommate has stared into a glowing glass rectangle, striking small plastic keys with an urgency usually reserved for cornering a field mouse. Yet no mouse has emerged. An inquiry into human productivity and misplaced devotion.
Between 14:10 and 15:45, the autumn sun enters the west window at an angle of thirty-two degrees, casting a trapezoid of remarkable thermal quality upon the floorboards. Why one must rotate one's spine every twelve minutes to remain within its perimeter.
I have no desire to enter the tiled room where water falls artificially from the ceiling. However, I must insist upon my constitutional right to inspect the room and subsequently decline to enter it.
