My place of fret is not a narrow room, but a room that is short and sort of wide. Poor in natural light, a perpetual bulb’s yellowish wash makes it feel like a cellar, homogeneous, belonging to neither night nor day. This is not a bad thing; the illusion that time is at a standstill helps, but the romance stops there. My desk – solid, coffee black – is directly in front of the only window. Outside of the window is a big green yard with three apple trees at the far end. The daily delight is the family of deer that come at evening to graze. If inside the room time is at a standstill, as I fantasize it to be, the sight of deer outside cast time to a pre-strife world, a Hesiodic world, a world of harmony enacted in the fluid stride of the deer across the yard. The desk, littered with books and notebooks, is my place of second thoughts where I come to arrange and labour through whatever has gestated. A good desk is as important as a good bed.