In his office, William Fletcher has a sleek, black leather futon bed. On it is one small cushion swathed in soft, suede-like wool in an elegant shade of charcoal grey. He always leaves his door opened, and is never in when I wander by with the seven a.m. draft; no one is.  

It is puzzling to me how contradictory this piece of furniture is. It is meant to be a spot of oasis, of sanctuary, of haven, from the incessant repetition of the 9-5 workday. It should exude warm, airy, soft, comfort -- but in their stead, harsh, unforgiving lines, metal, shine, synthetic manufacture, too stylish for a staid government office, too hard for restorative sleep, too, too ... too ...

One day, I will go into that square, unlit space, curl up on William Fletcher's lavish, slippery upholstery, and hug the cushion close, dreaming of colours in warmest sunlight.