Claude’s home office is -- a mess, basically. A carefully ordered and organised mess, of course, but to the unsuspecting eye, it will look like nothing but chaos. A chaos of papers scattered all over the writing desk, some of them even strewn across the keyboard of his laptop which is almost always turned on, so that he can keep in touch with the surrounding world and every once in a while scribble down fragments of poetry as it enters his mind. It’s that direct line, between conception and birth that’s essential, as Didier has said so many times which means that besides the laptop and the papers, there’s a small collection of notebooks stacked on the windowsill next to the potted plant (a fern) that filters the sun during summer, casting almost mosaic shadows across the desk. If Claude’s there, sitting in front of his computer or lying on the couch, reading, it’s also highly probable that there’s at least one cat accompanying him. Socrates usually curled up in his lap while Plato prefers to keep his distance and sit in the window, in hiding behind the large fern leaves. Himself, Claude enters his office clad in loose-fitting, faded jeans and a too-big jumper, reading glasses in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. His office is his refuge as well as a working space and in the same way that Vincent bikes to work with all the enthusiasm of a man who knows his work changes things, likewise Claude approaches his office as a small kingdom wherefrom he can rule an entire world, minute by minute, word by word.