I write at a faux cherry stained wood desk from Office Max. Though a chair and lap would suffice. My fingers glide across a keyboard like a pianist’s on a piano.
I get a whiff of Fresh Linen Febreeze or Calming Lavender in my selective nostrils, but you may catch a hint of dog or the stubborn scent of the house’s previous owners that I’ve labeled as “old people”.
Somehow light gets through an eastern facing window, by dodging the smudges from unprofessionally cleaned window panes or refracting through tiny rips in the block shade that I routinely pull down to the floor until the force sends the vinyl back up, spinning around the reel. Never settling in at the desired height.