Creaky old wicker chair I love you and sea shells I love you on the windowsill and battered dictionary to my right, bound with brown masking tape, I love you too. Four pens splayed on my desk that is the colour of ivory or antique french, can't quite remember now, nor does it matter. Sunglasses too are here for a sense of drama. I must have dropped them when I came in from a sunny day long ago now and hanging from a nail by the window, wooden birds with bells are still. Sky is dark grey tonight with rain promised to come and then, pass, as it sometimes does. But everything passes apart from these books and pens on this desk. Husky cars drive by outside on the twisty road and below, down through this house, voices carry up and dissolve half-way. Ah, how temporary everything is. How beautifully we manage to weave ourselves into what we think is all. How wonderful it is to sit at a desk high above the tidemark and watch the water recede. To marvel at how the smallest wave catches bits of flotsam to carry it away again, only for it to return once more as something else altogether , something that might even adhere, cling to my skin, permanently.