I walk into my New York hotel room. It is on the third floor, with a view of the deep blue evening sky and bustling city life down below. There’s work to do, but the scenery pulls me in. I stare for a while before remembering, I have work to do.

I sit down at my office chair, and I’m surrounded by high stacks of books. It’s my own office space, and I live out my dream job as a secretary at a friendly company. The chief executive gives me a nod as I begin to work; my neighboring coworker hands me a mug of tea, and I smile my thanks. There’s a lot, a lot to be done, and in so little time.

But I plow through. Here, I can write a thousand words no problem. I wish I got paid for every word I typed. I imagine being given a dollar for every word, no matter how small, and replace the stacks of books with dollar bills, stacked high and high until every corner and cupboard was filled. How furiously I’d type away. It wouldn’t matter what I’d get done, as long as I got something. Progress is better than perfection, as they say.

My own little hideout.

It’s not perfect. It’s a local library near my school. The librarian knows me, and she’s friendly. She talks about her day sometimes. I feel safe, and I know that if I ever need a place to take shelter in I can always come here.

It’s not a fancy building in New York, but it feels homey. I can imagine anything I want; my thoughts are mine alone. I can become anything, make anything happen while I’m here, change the entire course of my life if I wanted to.

Here, the gears are always running.

Here, anything can happen.

Here, I am home.



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