It’s I who live there now. I shall here attempt to sketch a profile of my incense burner, which is on a small table beside me.

                On three delicate, sweeping, tiny brass legs it stands, a squashed spheroid for a body capped with a tall dome for a lid, an antique teapot of copper sans handle and spout. Halfway up the body, atop a narrow striated band that encircles its midsection, are three brass loops for metal chains, equidistant from one-another as are the feet below, but staggered in such a way that, were one to connect the loops into an invisible triangle, it would oppose the triangle similarly created between the feet (and, given its larger size, most likely win). As the unit’s free-standing state precludes their necessity, the chains, hanging from their loops, are pooled nearby, with a large hook at the mass’ center. Perched atop the dome lid is a small brass flange with which one might open the top. It is molded in a semblance of a flame.

                Above the band that bears the brass rings, the body and lid both are embossed with a swirling labyrinth of lustrous spirals and crescents; waves upon a tumultuous sea, a bank of fog obscuring the horizon, smoke gliding thin upon the wind. From the darkened gaps between the tin and copper wisps, faint white tendrils rise, as ghosts, curling and looping and unfurling, dancing and joining and separating on their quiet ascent until they vanish high in the still air, whispering, suggesting memories of cinnamon and sandalwood as they go.

                What distant, half-forgotten dream is this of which the burner speaks?

                Come now.

                You must listen.