solitude, space, and the selfishness of creation

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I love being in a big, sweeping abode that does not belong to me. In this particular case, I am writing from a friend’s uncle’s cottage—a perfect degree of familiarity and anonymity to create this sweet, blissful sense of intrigue. The walls are adorned with sweeping stacks of books. Rugs of bright colours and tribal patterns lay abundantly on the ground. Delicate pieces of china — tea cups, saucers — are stacked gracefully in the cabinets in the kitchen. The style is unique, eclectic and a touch eerie. There is a lack of cohesiveness that intrigues me. Something tells me that this person picked out exactly what he liked, and paid no attention to what others would think of it. It is his home after all… what else is there to do? get future posts unravelling the inner world: I am comforted somehow by how many books are present here. His book collection is wide-ranging. Mystery fiction. George Orwell. Old poetry. Classical art. Learning Italian. Impressionists. I have always loved getting

the aforementioned cabin I love being in a big, sweeping abode that does not belong to me. In this particular case, I am writing from a friend’s uncle’s cottage—a perfect degree of familiarity and anonymity to create this sweet, blissful sense of intrigue. The walls are adorned with sweeping stacks of books. Rugs of bright colours and tribal patterns lay abundantly on the ground. Delicate pieces of china — tea cups, saucers — are stacked gracefully in the cabinets in the kitchen. The style is unique, eclectic and a touch eerie. There is a lack of cohesiveness that intrigues me. Something…

solitude, space, and the selfishness of creation

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