There is an interesting thing about memory foam. It yields to your touch & pressure. Not fast, not reacting. More like an indulgence, a consideration. Later it pauses with the impression you’ve left on it, as if ruminating. Just as meditatively it returns to its original self.
It isn’t intimacy unless it feels a little tender.
A lovely return to my late 20s where books absorbed me with a rigour I did not experience in my social or professional life. It was like coming home.
A house that is a warzone. A courtroom for custody battles. Dumping ground for other people’s pain. My body.