What is it about things that make me want to cry?
Pictures don't do that. Words, maybe, sometimes, but not often.
A hat block, shaped like a rocket, half eaten by woodworms.
Four rusty screws, held together by a piece of twine.
A stick. And a feather.
A small, circular labyrinth, hanging on a nail, not quite centered.
A blue plate.
A sweater. Two blocks of wood, painted.
A typographers magnifying glass.
Some of these things are mine.
I bought them, inherited them or someone gave them to me.
Others are not.
But that doesn't matter.
They all do it.