I want to sit and write in this spot forever. Inside, toasty warm. A bowl of syrupy porridge with sliced bananas and almond slivers. Tea bitter because I've left it too long. Outside, charcoal facades. Brushstrokes in greys and blacks and smokes. Carvings in stone. Church bells in unison. Wondering how the rain doesn't just wash everything away.
It must be. Magic.