Everything I'm working on seems related to houses. When I said it was my guilty pleasure, little did I realise how true that was. What is so damn obsessive about dwellings, anyway? It's four walls and a roof yet so mired in metaphor that it hangs on me like tar on a mastodon. In fantasy, you can create these wonderful places and chose to interact with whomever you please--banishing those who don't please you. Why is where we are, sometimes, so difficult to be?
This is a quiet place where the air is soft and the breeze gentle. It matters not that it's existence is only in my imagination. You can close your eyes and feel the salt spray in the air, my warm breath on your skin. A chilled glass of wine, a little fire in the stove and absolutely no electronics, we breathe, let go. Relax, it's just an escape.
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