The cursor blinks.
It is a small, rhythmic pulse on the white screen.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
It has been blinking for twenty minutes.
I have written three sentences in that time.
Peace is not the absence of noise.
It is the ability to hear yourself think within it.
It is a muscle.
I delete the third sentence.
It sounds too much like a self-help book.
Too polished.
Too defensive.
I lean back in the chair.
The study is quiet.
The house is quiet.
London is quiet outside the double-glazed windows.
There is no reason for this much resistance.
I am not writing about the sale.
I am not writing about the contract.
I am writing about the space between those things.
The building.
The choosing.
The staying.
But how do you make staying sound compelling?
How do you make peace so
