Tiredness seeps, I feel pores open, limbs ache. Room silentstill, undisturbing, I can think. Books placed, sit placid, even-rowed and arranged according to subject of course, (scrupulous about books). Eye swivels, cushions jumbled, all in a heap of peach and blue, and colours pivot up from the rug to jag the air, such vivid power they almost sound, and the cane chair gleams a pale, self-effacing gold. The little wooden men over there stand bold, correct on their squares and the blank screen stares sightless and black at the waves hung on the wall mid-climb, curls of froth stuck high, and me - I have all these things around me - all are mine and my high-ceiling'd space - here I lie and contemplate, ignore, citynoisepeople out there.
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