Only a bowl of fruits on the glass table top. Strange, I don't remember those we drew for art in primary school as being cut into neat geometric shapes. Still life always contained within it the shady hints of motion. A dry silence, although noise is just a click away. I am trying desperately to feel, but I doubt anything here can teach me how to. What would I find if I were to trace the history of this living room? I imagine myself to be inside a portrait on the wall, watching everything that has taken place in this inhabited space. What joy was born within these walls, what lively conversations made, what memories left behind? Or did the only human touch here belong to a man watching his TV with a bag of peanuts, or to a dinner for a family who watched the food more than each other? The fruits, again. I am about to take one more piece when an itch begins to form above my left brow; I scratch it furiously.