Cleaning Room

One of the standard tasks on my weekly honey-do list is laundry. Every Monday or Tuesday for the last thirteen years. Being apartment dwellers our laundry room is a closet that houses an double upright and the water boiler. Squeezed in between the two is the ironing board. Filling up the fissures of space are such laundry type things as the iron, detergent, starch, and I’m falling asleep.

The point is this area is minute, spartan. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I pulled out the ironing board and saw a desk.

I popped my head in hesitantly, thinking there must be a whole in the wall. I didn’t want to thought of as some kind of perv for looking into the next apartment. Then I started thinking the neighbor might be the perv.

I’m happy to say I discovered no pervery. What I found instead was a small room about four feet wide. From wall to wall sits a beautifully, ancient looking peice of polished wood. Its the perfect size writing desk.

On the desk was sitting a wire bound notebook, my favorite kind. Next to it was the most exquisite pen I have ever seen. It filled my hand, yet was light. The ink chases the white of the page, but the pages are only being playful when running away. They are think, absorbing the ink in layers of subtelty.

A simple wooden chair was the only other thing in the secrect room. On the inside cover of the notebook was inscribed two words.

No more.

I don’t know that means.

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