Calligraphy (March)

[Interior] At night the room rests us, after dinner, after talk. A blue book’s open on the couch, ‘Insomniac City’, but that restlessness of mind is only something we read about here, someone else’s reason for writing. Reading lamps emphasise wooden sideboards, sideline the ceiling. Cream curtains are drawn against the dark, that for the first time this March has turned cold. Inside, the table has been cleared. The wall of art books is like a city grid of thin buildings, all names unreadable. A calligrapher’s pennant hangs from a brass hook: ‘The Unexamined Life Is Not Worth Living. SOCRATES’