I sit in a world of my own devising, abstract ideas given form. This world is not anyone else's, it is my own place alone from the outside world. Sunlight filters through a window behind me, a tall window, many small panels of square glass, the Georgian style. Outside are trees and plants and bushes, lots of green. When the ideas run low, I turn and look out over this greenery and I am
inspired. This must have been what people envision Eden to be like. It gives me back what I give it, my attention returns ideas from looking out over it.

I am sat at a desk, a writing desk. There's a pen and paper in front of me, or maybe it's a workstation. No, a pen and paper, to keep the ambiance, but it has the unlimited capacity of a computer. I can write as much as I want and never run out of paper, I can delete words and move paragraphs as easily as with a computer. But it appears in my mind as a fountain pen and lined paper. Bookshelves line the walls, crammed with all manner of books and papers and files, all repositories of ideas and information. I have written a lot of what is in there, but still more are ideas and thoughts, inspirations which I have seen but have yet to tap.

Around me, in mid air, hang shapes that defy geometry. When I write, I take these shapes, these condensed ideas, and twist them in my hands, fitting them to the page and pinning them onto the paper with my pen. There is a never-ending amount of these, bizarre baroque constructs that defy both the laws of physical reality and the laws of the mind, the pure psychic creations of inspiration and ideas, constructs of the mind just waiting for me to reach out and grab them, to bend, spindle and mutilate them before I pin them to the page.

Most of the time, the garden beyond the window, my mental construction of the world, seems to be in springtime or summer, a garden in full bloom. But there are times when the world seems to freeze over. Dead branches of old trees sketch a black lattice against the grey skies, snow and ice covers everything out there and I can see no good out of the window, no hint that spring is just around the corner. Then the ideas change, then the constructs in the air become sharp and spiky, tipped with poison. And so, the words that I use to pin them to the page must be different, tipped with a poison and a hostility of my own. Sometimes, I sit in the constant winter of my study, wondering what life would be like were I to draw the curtains, to shut out the outside world. But I have tried that before, and the ideas can not remain there. With the gas-lights turned on in the study, with no light flowing in from outside, they cannot hold themselves in the air. They suspend themselves on the light of the outside world, hanging on a sunbeam. But without that light, secluded in my mental office, I can not find them. My inspiration hangs in the light of my view of the outside world, and if I close out the landscape of my mind, coloured as it is by my perceptions of the world outside my head, then I have no inspirations. So I cannot close myself off. I cannot ignore the world any more, no matter how it colours my garden. To do so would make me more insane than I already am.

I look down at myself while I am putting this description to the page. The form of the description defies all description, a writhing mass that would be what geometry looked like if it were solid. But still my pen pins it to the page, taking it's hyperdimensional mass and smoothing it out. My hands look like they do in what I imagine is my physical form, long fingered and pale, and I am wearing a dark grey suit, with a collarless shirt, top button open. This is all I can see of myself, as there are no mirrors in my mind, no way for me to see anything but what I imagine my eyes can see.

Yet, there has been a change in this place. About a year ago, it was done. Before then, I would sit frequently with the curtains closed, fooling myself that the thoughts I had were better for it thanks to my detachment. The curtains are still there, but they are open, and tied back. There's dust on them, they haven't been closed in over a year. And when I finally opened them, looking out onto a summer's day, trees with full green leaves and flowers in bloom, the room changed. Subtly, as if it had always been there, a fireplace was evident in one of the walls. There is a fire burning in there, not hostile, not threatening to burn anyone or anything. It gives it's heat to me, filling me with warmth that used to be lacking when the world was in winter, and stopping all of the inspirations from dissolving. It gives to me, and I give back to it, making sure that it can never die. because if that fire goes out, I would draw the curtains for one last time, and sit in darkness, without ideas or inspiration or any form of illumination. For I know that if that fire goes out, all I could see out of the window is winter, endless and cold, for as long as I could look. And it would never change.

Finally, I have pinned the idea to the page, crafted the words to hold the idea down. So, I stand and look out of the window. The sun is shining, and music flows into the room, audible over the crackle of the fire. Seeing that it is good, I take the page, and lift a copy from it, placing it in a file on the bookshelves that represents my memories, then I fold the remaining copy into an envelope and address it simply "To the world". I sit back, and relax. That job has been done.