There is a place in my mind that is like a large open room and, against the wall, a wide and solid bed draped in copious sheets, soft and warm but barely ruffled. The windows reach down almost to the floor, patterns of small glass panes intertwined with white lines. They open outwards and have twisted black iron handles. Sometimes one is half open, billowing pale curtains. They hiss across the floor in the breeze. Sometimes the windows are shut tight against pelting rain and the curtains are still sentinels, flashing lightning.

At night there are candles and jazz, but I don’t remember ever striking a match or selecting the song.

The ceiling is high and the walls are off-white. I can smell the sawdust of a parquet floor and hear birds in the morning in unseen trees. I am always alone in the room, sometimes unaware of my own presence. There are two doors, but I don’t know where they lead. It doesn't matter. To my left, a desk – ivory coloured wood – with a single notebook, open, and a black fountain pen resting on an empty page. And a small single bookshelf, tucked into a corner, with books that have been carefully selected from an unseen library, by me. I don’t know what they are, but they belong together in the way of books that have sat side by side long enough to form friendships through cardboard covers.

In this room I am completely happy. I once dreamed of becoming rich and building a house with that same room. But then I would have to get out of the bed and latch the window when it rained, and I would inevitably disturb a book from a friendly conversation.