First thing in the morning, I sit down at my desk. It’s sturdy — used by my grandfather, then by my mother, then lugged around from apartment to apartment by me. The light streams in through the window, casting rainbows on the floor as it catches on the prisms hung on the windowframe. The forest of plants on the windowsill and desk perk up their leaves in shades of wine-red and green.
A desk and some light is not all I need, though. Reading at the hard surface of my desk means moving my computer, shifting the clutter atop it in accommodation. Instead, the shelves packed with the combined tastes of mine and my husband disguise a nook. A small futon, piled with blankets, lit with glittering fairy lights and candles. Incense burns, smoke curling down off the top of bookshelves and into the hollow built for reading. I can pull any book off the shelf and curl up, somewhere warm to read or to nap.
My dog has his own space. A plush bed in the corner, beside the desk. He will certainly prefer to sit beneath the desk or hide himself away in the reading hollow, head peeking out to watch me type. The door is open, but the room quiet no matter how much activity goes on outside it. A library acting as sanctuary in an otherwise busy household.
from the pen of icarus blake 
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