The desk was willfully angular. Everything had a place and remained perfectly in line with the ninety degree angles of the furniture. When zhe sat at the desk, hir back was straight, arms at right angles, feet firmly planted on the floor. It was disturbingly clean except for the pen holder. A firework of collected writing instruments, many stolen from other desks. The small space held the all of hir chaos and subversiveness, pushing the limits of the boundaries and threatening to explode in a volcano of ink and graphite. That tension kept hir sane.
This description is definitely not my desk. I attempt to keep some order, but really, I just do not care.
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