Monday, 25 August 2014

Pencils of the old house

The old house solid in its white painted bricks, wise in its slowly rotting ironmongery, almost eternal encapsulated as it is in the ancient breath of the woods that border it wallows in its hidden nooks. It is its hidden nooks. All the objects that have been neatly classified in drawers, boxes and old chests never want to shift from their accustomed places. The pencils too are reluctant. I line them up on the wooden desk, on the windowsill and even on the thick lexicon: Faber Goldfaber, Hardtmuth, Staedtler, Mars Lumograph, Lyra, Stabilo. They think that they must be useful still but possibly their time has passed.

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