I am sitting at my desk. Writing.
I am sitting writing at my desk.
I am sitting at my writing desk.
The bricks of the driveway reflect the morning light. Brightly.
The bricks of the driveway reflect the bright morning light.
The bricks of the driveway brightly reflect the morning light.
And there is an ink bottle on my desk. Sitting.
There is an ink bottle sitting on my desk.
There is an ink bottle on my sitting desk.
(desks aren’t meant for sitting)
Burdensome and opaque, the bottle directly quantifies the amount of work I have not done, and the amount work I am still yet to do. Leaves are blowing in through my door. Irritating, but it’s simply what I will have to put up with if I want a visitation. Visitation rights are restricted by Supreme Justice Bill. Supreme Justice Bill is dissatisfied with his name, it is not very Supreme.
A little bottle of black ink should not make me so anxious. It should not. But there it stands, a perfect picture embodying the fact that there will always be more ink to use. More lines to be drawn and more words to write. Anxious in a good way. Supreme Justice Bill dips his nib into the ink bottle on his left. His colleagues are confounded by the decision to use ink instead of an ordinary ball point. Bill is trying to be more Supreme.
(Supreme Justice Bill signs the rights of visitation over to the estranged spouse of a thrice removed great-grandmother. It’s what’s best for the children really.)