Wrapped in black, or gunnysack grey and shaven head, because hair just needs attention. Simple and serene, a paper house upon a hill, big empty rooms, just three, and mats upon the floor. Tables short, like me, and windows, many windows for the light and breezes to enter through. Dabs of color, here and there, very little to distract; enough to contemplate. A streak of blue for thinking, a gash of red for rage, yellow for the pretty thoughts and black, and white of course. A single vase of flowers, seen differently each day. Soft grass without, and pebble walk, each pebble unique in shape and size. Twisted trees for shade, leafy for the sun.
And my computer.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Sounds wonderful!
What a word picture. I want to roll the words around in my mind and taste them…
The only thing I notice… there is no mention of time. The setting sounds ideal. All That is needed is someone to occupy it and write.
Are you able to find, or make the time to write in that space?
Yes, David. I live there when I’m writing. Luckily I can hear my husband speaking through the paper walls. Sometimes.