I think I've made myself clear about the coffeehouse I currently sit in.
One of the great things about being a writer is that I can create nurturing spaces that I can't find in real life, spaces that literally make me weepy-eyed. A kitten pile on a warm wood floor, a cottage in a place called Heaven, a coffeehouse where I can be completely unselfconscious, a toy shop where a young Kris Kringle builds wooden toys. A rainy alley where two people kiss for the first time, an attic where the sun shines in through a window, an auditorium with perfect acoustics.
If I encountered my imagination in real life, I would wonder if I was in heaven, which means I'd wonder if I was dead, and whether the afterlife would be a place where I literally walked through my imagination. That wouldn't be bad as long as I didn't indulge the darker parts of my imagination.
