Struggle through the late afternoon. A single apple and lime in a large wooden bowl at the far end of the table. They lie beyond the range of my immediate attention. The apple has been there too long. I will never eat it. The lime has been there even longer, but appears less affected. The bowl supports them through my neglect – as they mutely persist. I can scarcely see the lime. It is sunk in the depths of the bowl with only the top of its green pate visible. The apple protrudes more, pointing a small anus upwards. If it must confront decline then let it do so with no false modesty. The bowl itself is shaped from a large, convoluted wooded knot – thickly carved, pockmarked and dark, but with a broad stream of blond wood running up to the rim. This stream runs right up to where the exposed apple sits, like a mat of licentious hair, like a parting in the trees to reveal the muted contours of dusk.