Review Summary: an atom is mostly empty space
You ever just need some space?
This fucking room is too small. I should love it here: a paper-mache still life of Times Square hangs on the wall over my desk, which – for some reason – plays host to a clutter of wrinkled button-up shirts; one for every failed job interview and claustrophobic social gathering. The blinds open up to an occasionally stunning view, where rays of light flood in between the branches of a neighbour’s eucalyptus tree, reaching down to bless the ground. I have a fucking en-suite.
I don’t know. The hands of the clock move too hastily, until something like
Watering a Flower comes along and I remember to breathe in. This record is the few lit lanterns left floating lonely on the lake, or a quiet picnic in a high place. The notes are cautious of each other, considerate even, as if a carefully placed hand on the shoulder is enough for empathy’s sake. It is, if you’re wondering – the lesser the company, in my opinion, the more effective it is. So I let my eyes close and the lead in the air dissipates, becoming cognizant of its role as burden. Life becomes the most pleasant of idle screens for the wonderful part of an hour and I find comfort in everything that I will never come to know: the real Times Square, the jobs gone to other people, the world from the perspective of a eucalyptus tree.
This room is just the right size.
