My dream is to open a bookstore in a coastal town in Maine. A used bookstore. A used bookstore that only sells literature, poetry, drama, travel books, language reference books, art books, and history books. No business books or computer science books. Just old school humanities stuff. And I’ll have a couple of cats wandering around. And I’ll have built the shelves myself from old wood. I’ll live upstairs, and my commute to work will consist of descending my beautiful spiral staircase every morning. My wardrobe will consist of many cardigans of varying colors and weights, some new and some gently-used with fraying holes where the pockets are. There will be a never-ending supply of coffee, the air will smell like dust and worn leather, and NPR will be on the radio 24/7.
That’s the dream.