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cracking the carapace
Apr. 24th, 2009 01:36 pmThis is where I'd like to be:
A garret with deep stone walls and a long view of mysterious city threaded by river. The walls are papered in living vines, the floor in carpets. The cats keep me company, eyes greener than the vines, luminous as the candle light. Here I write, every day, at a dark wooden desk polished soft as water by the oils of time and use. Here I write, and stories fill my hands and pages, whisper in the shadows and dream in the morning lull. The air through the window is fresher than rain; sometimes it is foggy or misty, the world a pearl of grey set in silver; sometimes sun falls like soft rags in a burnish and brush of warmth.
A garret with deep stone walls and a long view of mysterious city threaded by river. The walls are papered in living vines, the floor in carpets. The cats keep me company, eyes greener than the vines, luminous as the candle light. Here I write, every day, at a dark wooden desk polished soft as water by the oils of time and use. Here I write, and stories fill my hands and pages, whisper in the shadows and dream in the morning lull. The air through the window is fresher than rain; sometimes it is foggy or misty, the world a pearl of grey set in silver; sometimes sun falls like soft rags in a burnish and brush of warmth.
