A book. Psychiatric medications on a desk. Typewriter is dusty. A coffee cup with pens in it. Notepads with scribblings on them. Scented candles; Tennessee pine, Mr. Goodbar chocolate, lavender. A rock I picked up on the side of a road in Iowa fits in the palm of my hand. Never tossed it or skipped on a lake; kept with me like a mystic’s crystal.

I sit and look around through windows, a small room, pictures on a bookshelf, a copper cup, and my New York City library card. A lamp that sometimes works.

Strange history.

Strange.