In the room at the top of the house without an idea of what to write about, and nothing else to be distracted by. Just like a person carrying a new camera through the streets searching for things to act as subjects for pictures. The room at the top of the house is tidy, it is the way much of the rest of the house could be.
It is a refuge. It is something to write about, even though it is nothing special. Even the cat retires up here , to jump on the old knees before the glass table taken from the place of work. She did that yesterday, she just sat about and purred. That was one way to spread an aura of peace and quiet.
The room at the top of the house is bright, and light. It is hot in the summer and cold in the winter, the project to equip it with a heating system failed as there is a shortage of building workers who will do that kind of work. Perhaps next year, perhaps it will never happen. The German Präzisionspendeluhr clock on the wall reminds of the French clock in the sitting room, started and adjusted yesterday and still running today. It has come to life again.
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