![]() ![]() The interruption of her thoughts by the sound of a tree tapping at her window causes her thoughts to change tracks suddenly, she is thinking of Shakespeare sitting in a room with a fire burning while great creative thoughts rain down from the heavens into his mind. After comparing the act of living to a being a package zipping through a vacuum chute following a growing frenzy about how haphazard the whole thing really is, she suddenly grows melancholic with morose thoughts of death before pondering over the idea that the mark on the wall is not a hole, after all, but is perhaps just a circular bit of inky substance. ![]() The idea of the picture frame sends her off on a tangent about the personalities of the previous occupants of the house.Ī moment’s temptation to get out of her chair for a closer inspection turns into a philosophical rumination on how many possessions are lost over the course of a lifetime, which leads, naturally, to a recounting of several of the things she once owned that are now gone. She rejects the idea of the mark being the result of a nail because the only reason to place a nail there would be to hang a picture frame. These particulars stimulate a series of explanations quickly considered and then cast away as to why the mark might be there. It was a small black contrasting against the white wall, situated about half a foot above the fireplace mantel. In trying to recall the exact date of this remembrance, she calls to mind other images from that moment: a fire burning, the light cast across the pages of a book, flowers in a bowl, and the fact that she was smoking when she apprehended the mark. An anonymous woman provides a first-person account of a day in the middle of January when she noticed a mark on the wall. ![]()
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