I sometimes can feel an image being held close to my mind’s eye. It is of a room made mostly of wood: the walls, tables, and chairs are made of a substance so oaky that just sitting there warms the flesh (and if you hold you face up to the surfaces of everything, you can smell the ashes of another day). The experience of this is mediated by the sounds of glass hitting table tops, people with their chatter, brass instruments being played at maybe some distance away… There’s also a guy on a piano playing something I’ve never before heard. It sounds like a really great lecture that strikes the bones; the great big voice that reverberates through the body, eliciting the shivers. Yes, that sort of a sound. It’s the speaking of volumes.
It’s so cold outside. I don’t want to leave.