In my mind I’m in an empty room.
It’s only contents, a folding chair and a bare wooden table which has at it’s center a white postcard.
The chair has been painstakingly restored with wax and wire-wool, it’s surface resonant of honey.
Sunlight warms the floorboards, sliding silently through the bay window. I watch it negotiate it’s way across sill and wall, quiet and peaceful as an opportunist cat.
A good place to think, and to write about passion and creativity, relationships, art, language and therapy.