Mon, 3 August

MEETING, INTERRUPTED A room that has been this room before, will be again. The hand open — not offering, not demanding — held in the space between one clause and the next, a bird paused mid-wingbeat, a sentence still deciding what it means. The window does not help. The window is a second whiteboard with nothing written on it yet, or everything already erased. Somewhere below the arrow the point it was heading toward. Somewhere below the coffee a warmth the room does not share. The door is how we know this is not the whole story. The door is already half a goodbye.