I just installed an air conditioner in my bedroom. If I wrote faster —  drew faster —  I’d turn the tale into a graphic novel. It would have text, sub-text, and fine print so fine you’d never see it.

But I do everything slowly, like a sloth, without the satisfaction of knowing that I’m meant to be slow.

I’m writing this from my bed — twin-sized, with a restless mattress — and the air conditioner is to my right, humming like a nurse with a cradle to rock; save for those moments when it sounds like a nurse jailed for infanticide, rattling the bars with a metal cup and begging for mercy.

See what I mean? Text, sub-text, and fine print that can only be felt.

This is akin to building a house without windows, or a door, or a mailbox.  A visitor just asked if contact is possible since I neglected to provide an email link, phone number, or identifying mark on a fence post should someone stumble across my home and wonder if anyone’s inside. I’ve just added a contact form to the Mark Heath page, and I’m pondering the even more startling action of adding a CONTACT link on the home page.