Friday, February 1, 2013
There are always orange peels on the desk and orange stained fingers tinkering on top of the worn surface, full of secret codes carved into the wood by a younger self searching for a way to never forget. Here there is a paint stain from an experiment gone awry, the daily mischief of a child who always believed that there was a secret door behind the bookcase, filled by a serial book collector who loves the smell of literature. They all reside here somewhere, the bone collector who does not venture outdoors, the violist who could never say goodbye, and my dear friend Yorick, though I sometimes mistaken him for Horatio. It’s not much, but it’s home.