081413 #worm In another room, a room festooned with rugs the color and shadiness of a swamp, a telephone sits, primly, on a walnut whatnot, and rings. It's someone calling who wants you to compromise. The sound waves billow out into the next room, and the next room, where the peonies grow. There are always ants in that room. It smells like your grandmother's healing cottage. Gravity works differently in there. Fences are shorter, days are more vast. The air is always pinging. Shooting stars have yet to be born. You are--say it: free. The curtains swing in the breeze.