Monday, November 21, 2005

In his office, William Fletcher has a sleek, black leather futon bed. On it is one small cushion swathed in soft, suede-like wool in an elegant shade of charcoal grey. He always leaves his door opened, and is never in when I wander by with the seven a.m. draft; no one is.  

It is puzzling to me how contradictory this piece of furniture is. It is meant to be a spot of oasis, of sanctuary, of haven, from the incessant repetition of the 9-5 workday. It should exude warm, airy, soft, comfort -- but in their stead, harsh, unforgiving lines, metal, shine, synthetic manufacture, too stylish for a staid government office, too hard for restorative sleep, too, too ... too ...

One day, I will go into that square, unlit space, curl up on William Fletcher's lavish, slippery upholstery, and hug the cushion close, dreaming of colours in warmest sunlight.

posted at 10:33:11 am

November 24, 2005   12:18 AM PST
Wait, this here entry got changedafied!!
November 23, 2005   09:43 PM PST
William Fletcher -- who was unceremoniously shuffled into the unglamourous cubicle just outside his former office -- is in all likelihood more disappointed than I am. Who knows how much fuckin' and suckin' he'll need to do (again) to regain his lost trophy.
November 23, 2005   09:39 PM PST
It's probably best. You'd just end up having to explain to William Fletcher why your pants are down at 8 a.m. after he wakes you from your post-coital slumber.
November 23, 2005   07:00 AM PST
Maggie Head has moved in now, and she locks her door.

November 22, 2005   11:27 AM PST

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Glo'ri'a'na, noun:
1. An alternative form of "Gloria."
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.


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