An old workbench from another time. Another world.

Not a screen nor a digital device to be seen.
There is an abandoned, cluttered spaciousness. There are echoes and smells of a church and of oil.

Great-great-grandfather daddy long-legs (pholcus phalangioides) and curled yellow newspaper articles hold the walls.

The afternoon light streams in through the row of cobweb-framed windows, and the well-worn wooden bench (just look at that edge) holds the witness marks of a thousand built things, and calls out still to make something old new again.