The room is large, with

a high ceiling, and frosted transoms

through which light leaches.

The dark wooden floor reminds me

of schools that I have forgotten

to unremember. People pass around me

on the way to doing something

or nothing. Strangers, mostly, even the

ones I know a little. Barricaded behind bookshelves,

sitting at a white melamine acre

on a roly-wheeled chair, with noises off

everywhere around me, I don’t understand why

it is easier to work here at Kurious Arts,

in this isolation of elsewhere and unknown

others, than it is to labour in the solitary

confinement of a room in my own

home. There is a Kurious

sense of beginning.

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