Desk

The light-colored wood is cold and yet under my fingers it is sturdy and firm and strong. The scars upon this surface are its history all that it has seen I may never know. The light-colored wood is cold and yet the longer I sit, the warmer it gets. The polished top is ingrained with writing marks and the multitude of lives who have sat upon it. The light-colored wood is cold and yet it is the warmest life of all. The light-colored wood is worn as it tells me its glorious tale.