A room I will not return to

There is a room on the second floor of a building I will not return to, and a chair by the window of that room, and a small lamp on a low table, and the position of the lamp on the table is the most important fact in the world for ten minutes a day, usually in the late afternoon, usually when I am doing something else.

I think the body remembers rooms more accurately than the mind remembers people. The mind softens faces. The body does not soften corners. The body knows exactly where the door was, exactly how far it was to the window, exactly the temperature of the floor in November.

I will not return. I have agreed with myself about this. The agreement is firm. I am only writing about the room because writing about the room is not the same as going back, and I am allowed, I have decided, the smaller trespass of the page.