My dreams. And within my dreams it is the house I dreamt for myself.

It's a small cottage in the outskirts of London. It's a narrow house, 3 stories tall, made up of dark red bricks. White windowsills and frames are a contrasting fading white which lets true the oak underneath. There is a mahogany-coloured door, slightly shrouded in faint moss. The yard out front is small and covered in low bushes and plants, with a hard, dark tiles mosaically separating the yard into two neat rectangles.

Inside, the walls are mainly white, and divided into separate rooms by large oakwooden beams covered in a dark laquer. It is rather dark inside due to the lack of windows to long sides of the narrow house. There is an audible crackle of a fireplace coming from the small living room. A large fauteuil sits besides it with several books leaning against the legs. An unidentifiable painting hangs on the mantelpiece, emulating the dark ambiance of the house. You can hear the boiler, and water running though the pipes thanks to the thin walls. A Victorian style bath is filling up upstairs.

There is a tiny bit of light falling through the ivy covering most of the backside windows. A river runs parallel with the parcels behind the houses. Under the hallstand there is a red and white cat licking its left paw with its eyes closed. Water drips from one of the coats onto him but he does not seem to notice, nor does it soak him no matter how long it goes on. Up the squeaky wooden stairs that take up nearly a quint of the house, there is a study and a bathroom. The study door is open and you see that there is the starting of a drawing on the yellowish paper, that you can not quite make out. There is a large metal ball bearing on the floor just outside the study which gets rolled gently inside. You listen to it rolling over the parquet floorboards.

Anyway, I usually find my way to the bath and relax in there until something else happens or I wake up.