A pause and some tea.
At the window, a darkening and restless fog hovers and I measure it by the number of church steeples visible moment to moment. A little breeze trips inside carrying crow songs and the swishing sounds of traffic passing. This side of the window, a scent of dammar varnish hangs on the air and wisps of steam flick out of my teacup like a tongue. On the easel I have a sense of the satisfaction of carpentry. I am building part of a city, beam by beam.