I pass the weeks walking from desk to desk, into and out of classrooms and cafes, like weather. The tall-backed chair in my office feels rough against my skin. Its armrests mean I cannot sit in half-lotus. Once I caught a white cat napping, curled on the seat. It startled and darted out, squeezing through the window. The bench is filled with stacks of papers and two pillows. The table is fine, heavy wood with five drawers. The shelves are filled with the books and the things of three occupants. Two of them are not here, but their things keep the third company. I take lunch in my office, staring at the blank stares of a man and a woman. Their eyes never meet, nor their postures change. Window blinds and cobwebs and years of dust keep the room darkish, even in daylight hours. Time passes slowly within its wooden walls. Often, when I leave, I am surprised to find the fluorescent lights in the corridors already turned off. I walk for an hour in the evenings, sometimes longer. There are many paths I could take on the way home. There are many clean, well-lit places I could work in if I don’t want to go home. The walls of my bedroom are white, the curtains are white, the wardrobe is white, the floors are dark, almost black wood. The desk in my room is teal blue, so is the fan, and the yoga mat where I sleep. Sometimes I cannot sleep as much as I would like. I write to-do lists on colored paper and post them on the walls. I write down my favorite poems in neat script and post them on the walls. I doodle with pencil in my sketchpad, tear out pages, and post them on the walls. I write with whiteboard markers on the white walls.