I don't tell anyone how much time I spend dreaming about the perfect place to work.  Not the perfect job, or even the perfect work--though I do dream about that, too.  But the perfect place for working, the perfect space.  The two years I spent with a tree-height office in the officehouse gave me a good space; the few months I had in the strange downtown above-the-bike-shop loft-studio (before the weird and ultimately fraudulent debt collector company took the place over in the middle of the night and stashed our stuff in a storage closet--as longtime readers may recall) also gave me a space that was nearly what I needed.  In both: a second-floor perch, big windows, interesting things to see out windows, good desks, space for books, high ceilings.  And quiet. 

I'm fixing to get lots of these things back when we make our move to the new officehouse. 

But I'm dreaming about them for home, too, scheming a bit for a house like a brain.  So many things are logistical impossibilities right now, and will be for so many years, that it actually doesn't make sense not to dream like a banshee.  And so I do.