..What an odd room.. Diamond shaped, six windows make a shimmering circle, drowned in street light -- a glowing angel perched on the windowsill. There's a Persian rug, a vase of bohemian crystal, an open book, an old rotary phone..usual nick-knacks in usual places, yet..I move about the space, touch the porcelain chess figures on the table..check, count eight green goblets behind the glass...check.., pass by a large leaning mirror and..check mate. A photograph, tucked under a frame, on an angle. I know her.. Know why angels rest on her windowsills. She's asleep in her bed two doors down the hall, beautiful as always, she's one of them. I sit on the edge for a minute then go, taking her picture with me, leaving the window open, leaving sleepy angels and cooing pigeons to themselves. This place feels like a musty attic at times..a grand one, but still..I wonder how far I can go if I leave it..Not far, alas..I will always come back here, even when I don't belong anymore, I'll still wander these streets and look into midnight kitchens with their tea and their quiet talk and nothing else will matter.