Sometimes it’d be nice to crawl into a bubble (a vacuum?) with lots of time and a steno pad and occupy space for awhile. Maybe wonder into King’s Cross to people-watch or photograph the moors outside Thrushcross Grange. I’d like to skip across La Mancha for an afternoon and stop in the shade of a giant windmill for a picnic of homemade lemon sorbet and fresh watermelon.
While there, I’d use my finger to trace the magical woodwork of Digory Kirke’s wardrobe and take a seat at Meg’s stool to embroider fine silk flowers onto a silk scarf… then stop to interview Atticus Finch on the way back home, just long enough to ask his opinion on the penguins in Antarctica.
Some days seem like they should be so joyfully meaningless that it’d be possible to skip across the atmosphere over Kensington Garden and wave at Peter Pan on the way by.
For now, though, I think the real world will more than suffice.