I live in this amazing modular-style home from the 50s. One side is floor to ceiling windows and I look out over a canopy of very old, very overgrown apple trees–remnants of an orchard that was on this hill decades ago. Before it was developed. I have a cozy wood stove in the winter. I have a breezy screen door in the summer. I keep gorgeous flowers cascading off the balcony and have a garden and plenty of outdoor space for my green thumb. We keep chickens here and eat an overabundance of eggs. I rent from my (ex?)bf. This place was one of the reasons we were able to fall into a life together in the first place. I was anxious to leave my rat cage-model and drywall dust-coated apartment. This place was the perfect sanctuary. I did not know at the time that I would end up living here, but I think on some subconscious level I knew that I might. 
I move frequently from school to school, job to job, city to city, loneliness to fragile new friendship (sometimes). I always have a specific idea in mind for what my new place will look like. About half the time I get that ideal place, other other half I have to settle for aforementioned rat cage-model, drywall dust-coated apartment. As I begin to imagine my next move, to my next endeavor, my next job, I begin to imagine what that place might look like. I am not eager to leave this place–one of the best places I’ve lived–but I know that my time here is impermanent.