As I writer I often dream. I am alone in a wood. My own personal retreat, to write, to decompress from city life, to get grounded. A log cabin on the lake is where I see me. A cabin surrounded by firs. In the early morning, my favorite writing time, a fog drifts in. Alone, I am on the porch, sitting. My journal lies open on a table beside me, my pen lies within its crease. Coffee mug in hand, I gaze out at the lake, now blanketed with fog. I listen as the wind gently blows. The firs whisper to one another, the house creaks, the aroma of coffee fills my nose. It is the night that brings me the most solace. I dream of how it rolls in, silently. With it comes silence, as it brings a hush to the daytime sounds. I am curled up on the armchair, a book in my hands, chosen from the shelf of the cabin’s very own library. I’m at peace, caressed by moonbeams, I read.