Little reminders of your cluttered soul perched atop your very own place. Not a whole room, just a spot.
Sheaffer Skrip Ink given a comfy home in an old jar and the well-worn nib wait for snowy days when all there is to do is write.
For quick notes jotted when time is short inky pens do the trick.
Coffee, the trusted stimulator.
Tucked away notes.
And the words of others sitting close by.
These things and the sounds outside the door–a rooster crowing, a dog scratching its ear and impatient for a walk and the muffled talk of family making music of their own–these things make books.