In my father's office there are many rooms

They are each about 8' x 8' and if you stand up you can see over them to fluorescence, more grey, stray floating particles of boredom. How many, probably a million, little heads all bowed over machines pretending to be important, not wishing, not wanting. Outside there is sun and the rain is still dripping from the roof. I think in here they are all little boys and girls, missing. At least, missed.

I know now why he would smell foreign when he came home from the office, foreign and strangerly when I found I must be shy. But I wondered which was my da's real smell, this or scent of Saturdays, the one that came deep from the very middle of his chest when after the day in the workshop or field I could hold my head there for a moment. Sawdust, hay, and salt and rain. Don't breathe. don't move. don't stay.

_
Warm and storms bringing cold, two deaths in the Family, sleeping, waking. This art of carving time. Crying and clowning. I was away and now I'm here.
Right now while I am not contemplating my mind in this place I am studying for my Incoming Theory Proficiency Assessment exam which I will take in 3 hours. And my head is comfortable, crammed. It's all so easy it's all so not, complex simple, smooth deep alphabet of this language becoming more natural than what you call speech.

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