Consolation: I can't be bothered enough to tell you my complaints, the office in disarray, the dirty floors, not even the draft around my shins, the cold creeping into my fingers and making them stiff. You know these things. I do too, and too often. There are other things to know--we talked about this today--other things put aside for later when they might be taken down from their walls and put to real use. Sensible use. A spoon, say: a gorgeous instrument for the mouth.
The bare tree outside the office window wags its head, both a nod and a shake, simultaneously, which is appropriate because I can't make up my mind about it. In its foreground against the clouds, the clouds being topped off by the wind, the clock tower looking quiet:
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