This is what I need.

A week. A week with no emails and work and friends and any notion of other people, other souls in the world. It could be a week out of every year. Every half-year. Every month. Or just next week.

A house in New England. It doesn’t have to be mine, just mine for that week.

The house would be surrounded by a modest, empty patch of land — modest only in New England terms; empty only by my urban standards. It would be musty, rolling, and trees will stand there; the kind you can sit beneath if you’re not wearing anything expensive. I wouldn’t. There would be a lake, and it will be mysterious and more that I would explore full of old things that were thrown in, that were spat out, that were carved in stones on its tiny beach. There would be gloomy patches where the sun never seems to really light, and they would be especially gloomy and frightening and exciting when the sun hangs low and pale in gray skies over the steely surface of the lake.
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