Writing in the Morning...

Barbara, you've inspired me to write in the morning instead of listening to radio. So we go:

It's the upstairs of an old house. There's an open door, and through it, you can see another door. Across the room, yet another door. And in that third room is an old chair, silouetted aganst the window. You can see only the top rail of this chair. The rest is mainly lost in the darkness beneath the window. The floor of this room is bright, with straight shadows laid horizontally across it. Just inside the door of the middle room, the floor is dark, though it gradually brightens within a few feet. To the left of the door are a number of bulky quilts or comforters, folded and stacked on a low wood cabinet. Now between the middle and the nearest room, the one we are looking out from, is a dark, walk-through closet sort of space. A dark curtain hangs down in folds there on the right side. The wide, plank floor is bare. The first room is bright, with a small white writing desk and a chair to the right of the door. A mirror hangs over the desk, reflecting a window on the back wall. The wall next to the desk angles inward and meets the door at the corner. At the base of the door, next to the desk is a decorative waste basket. All the doors up here are painted white. All the doorknobs are dark and glossy.

I like your long-winded scene. The violence reads indirect and sort of abstract against the scenery-painting, which makes it, for me, all the more violent. Cool.

Bob