The Elephant and the Amoeba
It’s winter. We’re up north. It is quite late at night. I am sitting by the small gray Formica-top writing desk facing the eastern window. It is pitch black outside and I can see my reflection in the glass, lighted both from the side by what light spills upward from the small desk lamp and from below by its reflection from the papers on the desk. It’s an eerie image. I’m not that eerie.