An empty room is never quite empty. Sometime after breakfast a rectangle of sun arrives through the window and lays itself down on the floor, square and warm, as if it had been mailed there. With no furniture to compete with, it takes the whole room.
Watch for an hour and the rectangle moves. It crosses the boards, climbs the skirting, and by mid-afternoon it is halfway up the far wall, thinner now, tilted, the color of weak tea. A room with nothing in it turns out to be a slow clock, and the light is its only hand.
Then it is gone, and the room keeps the warmth a little longer than it keeps the light. On a screen the appeal is the same emptiness: a plain wall, a patch of floor, somewhere to breathe. The icons become the only furniture, and the sun does the rest.