His study was an intimate collage of rarity, stolen moments, and some of his favorite things. There were bookcases of Mansonia wood, as high as the ceiling, whose rarified womb housed ancient schematics, Renaissance letters, and monophonic liturgical texts composed in the 13th century. There were whimsical paintings in exquisite frames that had not been mounted. While light prevailed in his work, the enclosure was solemn and muted. A miniature lamp presided at the edge of the Mulberry Thornbjörg. A colorful shade, kaleidoscopic in nature, further silenced the light. Claire purchased the lamp for him as a gift in Thessaloniki.
Among the items atop the black licorice desk were the handwritten, transcribed accounts of their conversations. They were quixotic tales of sunset treks across the Himalayas, twilight swims with starfish, and midnight trains to Luxor. Maxwell reclined in the leather sapphire chair of his making and pondered.
The only factor more extraordinary than the adventures, was the man who told the tale.
He massaged his brow.
Neil would have to publish Benjamin’s story.
Implode. Part XXXV – DK