The depth of perception lends itself at occasional bouts of silence. There is no sound, none, except little rasping taps of the computer keyboard. Imagine the dead of night, or the afternoon in a quiet cottage overlooking a freezing lake. The birds can’t wallow in its open embrace and make their shrill piercing noises. They have moved elsewhere. The air conditioner also remains quiet, and all stays numb except for occasional sounds of footsteps walking by. You are there, all alone, and dead to the world, except to the hum of the laptop. Focus. There connects – in the instant – a soothing link between every letter out of the fingertips and the screen. Besides that, only an occasional flash of a past memory reminds of a world on the other side of the white plasma. The world sleeps at the moment, and a will remains. Only that, seeping out of the tips of slowly rasping fingers.

Colours on the wall, green disagreeing chairs and mild alliances of littering warts brace the space for warmth. Silver gum wrappers on a spiral art, then there is the book and the keys that lay on it like a lover’s head on the bosom. A black jacket, a shawl, a headphone on the other side of the elbow scream: “there is no peace here but calm, and no order either.” A white plug, white paper receipts, white sheets sticking out of manila envelopes.

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