The space between the words

The Silent Eye

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I love my bedroom. It is nothing special. The decor is plain and simple and the room holds far more book-space than clothes storage. I sleep, read and dress in there and, more importantly, the dog does nothing in there except for the occasional illicit pounce on the bed, so it stays permanently tidy. There are no to-do piles, no strewn dog-toys, no bills awaiting payment… just shelf upon shelf of books and, for good measure, the window faces the rising light of dawn. It is a temple of calm.

On my bedside table there is a lamp, an inlaid musical box that was a gift from my mother, the inevitable vicious alarm clock and a book. Nothing more. It reminds me of a magical altar where the implements each hold a ritual significance beyond their outward form. The lamp and the alarm clock symbolise the extremities of time and…

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