My office.

I don't have a great many friends. I suppose I simply can not hold people in very high regard once I learn much of them. Emily Dickinson wrote, "The soul selects her own Society--Then--Shuts the Door." I'm with her. Yet, with the people I do let in, I cement, I adore, I dote, I correspond, and I habitualize. I spoke to one of the Chosen yesterday. He has a profound way of explaining Truths to me without extricating the Mystery of Things. I told him what the pen name "O.S." really means. I told him about my empty office. The office that waits for me, outfitted with a Mission-style writing desk and matching chair. With pens and ink. Copies of Anna Karenina, Treasure Island, A Tale of Two Cities, Lolita, Ethan Frome--and that's just a quarter of one shelf....And everything else symbolic of what I should be doing with my life. I set it up for myself months ago, but, apparently, I have yet to set myself up for it. He told me to go there and "create something." Even "if it's crap for the first few weeks, months, years." Eventually it will turn into something else. And he gave me permission to quit being so hard on myself. To give myself time to adjust. To be kind to myself. I think you'd agree, if you knew him, that it's not the quantity of friends that matters.