Deskspace

The feeling of moving beyond the boundaries of my deskspace, a hallowed-to-me place comprised of a coffee-stained footboard and the flipside of a broken and duct-taped checkerboard splotched with brown exterior paint / stain from its previous life as a palette for the first pergola painting resting atop a bookshelf crafted by the hand of my wife’s grandfather, a dented Target file cabinet (from when I lost the key and was in a mad search for my VHS copy of the 1943 MASKED MARVEL serial that I was, for some reason or another, certain was hidden within (it wasnt)), four Time-Life hardbacks to make up the height difference on one end and two towel-wrapped bricks from the out-of-doors atop the other “leg,” a set of drawers crafted by the hand of my great-grandfather brimming with the assorted detritus of distraction and fidget spinners and cast-aside drafts of The Work… the feeling, but nothing to replace it with – but why would I ever want to?