My sister had just been born and Dad lost his job at Roger’s Pianos and Clocks. When he worked there, sometimes he would take me with him. Mom would pack us a thermos of chicken soup and PBJs and I would sit under the empty desk in the corner, reading and listening to 75 clocks tick the minutes and chime the quarter hours, all slightly out of sync; making a mess of time. I loved it there. I loved that they were called grandfather clocks and would imagine they were a crowd of ancient, wise giants, whose sounds were the language which drove the universe. When there were no customers, which was often, Dad would play on one of the many pianos, every song a polka in a minor key.
— #radiosignalsfromtheedge

Today is a working day. I've gotten a late start, but now I'm working. I've pushed two tables together here at the shop. E and T are in the posture of creation, bent double, with expressions that describe their labor. I suppose I look like that too when I write, at once broken and ecstatic. Not beautiful but interesting.

I just want to take a million pictures of this, but I can't bear to interrupt them.

I might, though.

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