White Villa

I have already decided that I cannot, that I am unable to. The end of an envelope ripped nearly in half lays on other envelopes as yet unopened. The dead fish tail of the toothpaste casts a subtle shadow over a portion of the ripped envelope, but also resembles some low curved roof of a home set in the midst of debris. The home itself, which scarcely exists, is a species of debris. Smooth, white and unnatural, it nonetheless summons the thinking of cliffs, of rocky ground, of a villa fallen into ruin. This place had once provided sunlight and shade, but now it has escaped the scale of human habitation. It has become small and stripped free of all context. No sound of donkeys or of the ocean. No birds. No breeze on a solitary afternoon. I see it only intermittently. Mainly I see the tear in the envelope and the combed pattern at the end of the tube. I can also recognise, through a triangular gap, the anonymity of the table.