I have this piece of wood.
I keep looking at it, occasionally I touch it.
It is scratched, horribly beaten looking, a piece of something larger. Just a piece of wood.
I keep it locked away in a glass vitrine.
It lies there, mocking me.
It was part of the courtroom in which Lewis Powell was tried, a piece of the original fixture that had been part of what might have been the prisoner’s docks.
It might have actually touched Lewis.
It is….almost like a Nemesis.