A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

A couple of days ago I purchased a used copy of a paperback book already in my possession. Unlike the one on my pile, this one had its cover attached. However, no sooner did I present the book to the cashier than it slid from its cover onto the counter between us.

Yesterday afternoon, with the skies grey and the wind wet, I read the essay entitled "Absence of Design in Nature -- The Prodigality of Nature and the Niggardliness of Man," which immediately brought to mind Poe's "The Domain of Arnheim" (1849). Here is the opening paragraph from "Absence":

In the parlour to which I have retired from the heat there is a chair and a table, and a picture on the wall: the chair was made for an object and a purpose, to sit in; the table for a purpose, to write on; the picture was painted for a purpose, to please the eye. But outside, in the meadow, in the hedge, on the hill, in the water; or, looking farther still, to the sun, the moon, and stars, I see no such chair, or table, or picture.