What would constitute a perfect day?

Waking up in a room with an expansive view of a forest or ocean, under a
bleached white duvet. It’d probably be foggy out. Maybe I’d be watching a
fox or some sort of seabird from the kitchen window while making french
press coffee with a hand-cranked mill. Someone’s left me a note or a
token. The house has hardwood floors and vintage details, and is
completely devoid of clutter. There’s the smell of a fire burning
somewhere nearby. Someone’s building something out of wood outside and
I’m left to work on some portraits at my computer for a couple of hours.
For breakfast something Japanese seems to be languishing on a kitchen
counter, waiting for me to eat it. Around lunchtime I get in my bitchin’
Jaguar XJS and drive a country road out to a supermarket where I cobble
together a meal. My art agent emails me and wants permission to sell a
few pieces from my personal archive. From some sort of hill I eat an
apple, admire the view, and a great line worthy of committing to paper
dawns on me. On the way home I cross paths with a good friend and we
make plans to meet later in the week. Coming home, I’m greeted by an
amazing cat and someone in an even more amazing cable knit sweater.
There’s a rocking chair and a porch somewhere in the mix. Someone makes a
joke, lights a fire and makes dinner appear, probably fish. We get
drunk off red wine and pass out in the living room to dusty ambient
records.

—Anonymous