Icelandic Room.

Against a wall entirely made of windows, the silence is sharp. It is the type of quiet you would feel afraid to shatter. The occasional bleat of a cell phone, clicking of fingers on computer keys, the rustle of fabric (somebody is putting on their coat--bold!), or a pencil gritty atop paper slices through. The silence is intense; intimidating almost. It seems like if you were to drop something or take a bite of an apple or even cough, at least one person would glare at you.

And then there is this woman in heels. She is fifty-something with a smooth white bob. Her heels are leather (navy) and it seems like she is in charge. Not, like, in charge of making sure that everybody stays insanely quiet, but in charge of the books on the shelves, or making sure the plants get the perfect amount of light and water, or something like that. She walks through the room at least once every half hour or so. Her shoes are steely against the wooden floor and it is actually kind of nice because it pulls me out of this smoky writing haze that I am beginning to drown in. A simple reminder that there is an entire world outside of this goddamn project that is dragging me into itself. And so I like her, this woman with the heels.

February is the month of the ice moon. This year, is also the month of my champagne birthday! Yay yayayyyy. I have wanted to be 27 for a long time now, for some weird reason. I don't know why at all, but I have been aware for a few years now that it is going to be a special age for me. Maybe all good, or maybe the opposite?! I hope that it is a happy year.

Click, click click. Here she comes again, the keeper of the Icelandic Room. Light washes through the wall of cool million windows, all dusty luminous white. I sip my coffee, now cold, and reread what I've written for the hundredth fuckin time. It isn't good yet, but it also isn't bad. Okay, for now, is an okay place for it to be.