From a 10-minute assignment to, “Write a list of sentences that do not connect to one another.”
I sit at the table and my waist presses uncomfortably against the rough denim and unforgiving button of my pants.
From here, the mirror, whitewashed angles framing reflective curves, stares at a line above my head, casting back the light that bounces off the pale semigloss of the low farmhouse ceiling.
Oh, the weaving, in its iridescence this time – its blues and greens and purples dancing with one another against the silver bamboo canvas. Even stretched as it is, I can envision its flowy drape and shimmering tassels once it is freed, completed, from its wooden frame.
Some days, I think that there must be a better solution for covering that spare Danish couch with the smooth and inviting curved wooden arm rests.
There are two chalkboards, now: one, utilitarian, upon the wall, and one, leaning in repose against the plaster, gripping the ash flooring beneath it, sturdy and statement making.
I must write a sentence in the next eight seconds, and this is it.