At some point in time, I talked about going to a cottage away from everyone where I could enjoy seclusion and write in peace. A place where I could just rest my weary mind and dream away the day. Cheese and wine, bread and fruit, and a small path leading away.

Right now, it seems more that I'm in the middle of an enormous city and bustling through with no time to stop and look for my little path. Everything runs by in a blur and I never seem to grasp anything to hold and examine. I know there must be input there, but neither the cottage or the cafe has made itself readily apparent, and I seem to be staring off into nothingness with no hope for finding what I am looking for any time soon.