There is no poetry in an uncluttered and neat room, save for the energy spent with the task; the stench of sweat – sweet scent, some would correct it. My inner housewife needs some chaos to sponge it down.
A tidy room is a story well told.
One can see me now taking a book out of an itshelf only to drop it carelessly on a worktable. The action performed by such a character is loaded with an orderly intention. Yet it is the beginning of turmoil.
A smart room is no work of stupidity. It just does not need poetry, or the mud that tends to come stuck to its boots.
Poetry is a shameless wanderer, and dust on a bookshelf.
