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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