Lounging in a deep, recessed, window-seat on a pile of cushions. A soft, woollen blanket. A huge mug of steaming hot tea condensing on the window.
Rain patters down outside, like the sorrowful mountain is weeping at my absence. That monolithic, granite lump might be conquered tomorrow. Not today.
Worn and battered old boots lay in wait by the solid, wooden door. Today is about tranquility. Exercising nothing but my imagination. And my page turning finger.