The long legs of the table, curved gently, elegant and still, like legs of an antelope in the long grass, her head raised high - remembering some long forgotten question. The heavy, immobile worn out couch, an elephant unwilling to budge its tree-like trunk. The sharp edges of books, long worn out by too much touch and still lovingly calling for more. The chair, its black rollers, hooves of a horse – not just any horse, but a dark-honey-colored mare with a white streak across her nose and neck. I close my eyes, hoping they would quiet down. There’s work to be done.