I walk into the room of swans-and I feel like I’m being watched, by one lone golden eye.

A table leg stands up on it’s end, pointing upwards, like a giant neck.

Tangerines sit in the fruit bowl waiting to be peeled, it’s skin bursts into flames of orange.

Cotton wool clouds flutter by, drifting on a sunny afternoon.
As it glides soundlessly through the room of swans.