Have you ever wanted to go back to your childhood house and visit? See what they’ve done with the place, see how things have changed? Going back to work feels the same as what I assume that must be like. I’m only filling in so it’s quite like I’m just travelling through. Today is the first day I’ve been at the desk I used to call my own – well, for thirty hours out of the week. Answering the phones has been so deeply imbedded into my subconcous that most often I don’t even realize I’ve picked up the phone. I still remember a lot of the menial work, but something has changed. There’s been a shift in the air that makes everything just slightly different. Before I left I had my own account on the computer; the wallpaper being a picture I took of Australia. Since then that computer has been removed and with it every technological trace that I was ever here. The desk still lingers with bits of me: the compartmentalized office supply drawer, my handwriting on a folder or two, my typed phone list. With time, however, the drawer has become cramped, the file buried beneath it’s brothers, and the phone list is tattered and torn. Without getting too philisophical about how this metiphorically represents our lives here on earth / how we’re all just dust in the wind, etc. etc., it does have a way of making one feel quite…temporary.