Night Thoughts

Returned home yesterday after a month's traveling in the west. Just a few moments ago, I sat down at my writing table for the first time since getting back. On a piece of scratch paper, I found a mysterious note. Words in black ink. Not mine. Not Kris's. Not Robin's. Did the house-sitter take up my customary chair and pen this query to the genius of the house in the silence of our absence? Or perhaps the hob left it? Or the cat? Or some wandr'ng spirit, momentarily drawn in by the gravity of my obvious love of the past? Who can say? It was left face down on the desk and I think it was not left there on purpose, which makes it a little more wonderful...

"...how many years has it taken you to accumulate this collection? Where did you start and what ways have these wonderful things come to you?
What is the wheel?
How does it work?"