Charles Bukowski and his cat Manx, c. 1985.
I want to live here.
I want to read the battery of books, little by little, at my leisure.
I want to bury myself in cool blankets and patchy, patterned pillows dripping deep in the dugout nooks and crannies of this pea-fortress.
I want to rummage through every useless bit of strange junk and trinketry, musing over its purpose, its once was weirdish story, its future with me.
I want to wake up to sun spilling dawns, and step down, then out into the wilderness to wander the day.Agreed.