The spaces in which we dwell and spend our waking and sleeping hours become so important. We attach ourselves to corners and bookshelves, to heights and shadows and mirrors, doorways, the squeaking of floorboards and the peel of paint. What is it about where you spend your nights dreaming, where you succumb to the most pleasurable naps? All you need to do is close the door, and no one will come in. This place is yours, bearing the idle hours of so many years. There were so many hours to while away alone, and there was always work to do, the work of unrevealing one to oneself, finding friends in the inanimate, the adult world in the juvenile.
Rooms transform, grow old, remain safe havens where things are untouched. The indoors have as much enchantment as the outdoors, and you have always loved every space in which you can be alone, even bathrooms and closets. The closets that you piloted as planes, tiny jets stuffed with musty hand-me-downs and oversized coats.