If you can hear a longing, where does it lead?
In one direction, there’s a thread spinning out of the sketch of the room in the back of a book that’s also the room you are in, and passing through that room and into the room, before it is there and you are in it, and then into this room and out the window beyond where its line can be seen except as a dance of soft, frayed ends.
There’s also a doorway which marks an entrance, a mark that meets two other marks, each in turn meeting a fourth mark, which each mark a surface, projected through mire by memory, then through a hallway composed of other ambivalent doorways, which lead eventually to the door of carved English oak along the edge of the room that used to be an open volume thirty feet to the south and twenty feet to the north and ten feet along a vertical axis from the room in which I slept during many nights with curved walls and curved glass windows and a round wooden floor.
Think back to your house, and the home articulated along its lines. I’m wondering, can you also remember the moment at which a certain wall began to have feelings for you?