My mind is wet with thoughts. Each one stems from some other, and that from another. What is expressed in language when language is nothing but a rock along the shore? We pick it up and whatever wetness clings to it soon dries. We throw it back in, hoping it may return to the source, having crossed the boundary, the edge, the imaginary line of a door between two rooms, one in which I sit, facing the other. It is the time of day when she is often there, sewing or drawing, listening to Corelli. From the edge of the bed, with my eyes neither wide or closing, I engage with my surroundings and I am lost. I remain aware of, though not preoccupied with, her absence. That non-presence is like electric light cast against the sun. Any form can be coerced to fall away. All that is meaningless can be measured against the length of a wall. I see – as one sees lighter shades of paint where a sign was taken down – a desk, a window, a lamp, a chair, a stool, a dresser, a bed, a mirror, a doorway. First, the lamp, ceramic and so uninteresting that I cannot describe it. Only this: pink flowers and thin, olive-colored vines. The desk was given to me when I was ten. On the desk a mirrored tray which holds small articles: cosmetics in bottled and tubes, a brush and comb, a small, handheld mirror in a silver, molded casing. These items I first notice in their reflection in the large mirror in a swivel frame at the back of the desk. The chair, found in the trash along the road, sits pulled away from the desk. Some clothes are stacked on the reupholstered seat. Also the stool that my mother gave to us, I remember from my childhood. It is a vague recollection with no particularly pleasant or catastrophic phenomena attributed to it. The desk, chair, and stool all rest on one of several inexpensive oriental rugs in the room. The rug might remind you of a painting that you might have seen, somewhere. I have several good photographs of this room, and mine. The mental image I hold now is possibly based in part on these photos.