In my cottage over the road and through the woods, I have two rooms, a bedroom and a studio, a bathroom and two (2) screened porches (screened because of the bugs, in summer, not a problem now), furnished with lovely weatherworn old arms chairs and tables, into which I may curl and contemplate the forest: trunks of pines and maples (turning color), sunlight through the leaves, blue sky in the background, and, one the north side, an enormous, round glacial erratic, an almost human presence, humped, soft, inviting, cushioned on pine needles and leaf mulch. I eat lunch on my front porch, however, because that is where the sun is at lunchtime. Lunch is delivered by a wonderfully kindly and discrete elf to my front door in a van in a basket: a thermos of soup, and a sandwich, veggy nibbles, a piece of fruit (I canceled the cake, because if it was there I ate it, to the last chocolate crumb, and if I continue thus, none of my regular clothes--as opposed to baggy writing clothes--will fit me by the end of my stay, which is too fast approaching). I now feel I could steal back and spend the winter, and perhaps I wouldn't be found out, out there in the woods. Though I would need food, and that would leave tracks in the snow. My sense of time has almost vanished, this is great for the work.