As I sit here writing, I notice how there is a fold in the gold curtain screening one of the windows. That fold looks like a spine travelling vertically towards the curtain rod, almost perfectly balancing either side of the curtain.
There's a bejeweled metal crucifix sitting in front of a white candle and I'm impressed by how a source of spiritual light sits before a source of physical light.
One arm of our chocolate coloured leather love seat is reflecting all of the rain-muddied light that is coming in from the large window.
The traffic I hear sounds like ocean waves.
Looking to my left, down the short corridor between the dining room table I sit at and my bedroom, I can see my wife's feet hanging over the end of the bed.
There's a small bust of Nikos Kazantzakis in the display cabinet beside me, that reminds me of the busy market I bought it from when I was in Crete ten years ago.
There's a book with a close up shot of a gold Buddha on the cover - all I can see is his eyes and the bridge of his nose traveling down to the supple lips.
The spines of the hundreds of books we have peaking out from the edge of their shelves, almost seem like they are being pushed there by the books sitting behind them.
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