When the light turns on, everything within a two foot radius illuminates with a warm, candlelight color. The desk’s antique brown stain shimmers, the pages of the notebook turn caramel, and the wall tapestry marries forest green tones with light, reflecting it back onto the eyes of the artist. They’re taking notes about something, but you can’t make it out through the fog that is the dream. You catch a glimpse as they page through that there was a drawing of the very lamp they just flicked on. In their eyes, you can see concern, imagination, and lust. A spruce hangs over you as you lean back against the bark. The air smells like autumn leaves, though you’re sure it’s the middle of winter. ‘Chewink-chewink’ ’too-wink, too-wink’. There’s a towhee. The leather of the boots shows its age, the uppers being covered by jeans or another work pant are soft, still with some shine. The toes are worn near-bare to the steel underneath. Mudding around in the soil with your feet, you can feel there’s something hard just below the surface. A root of the spruce. Burgeoning from the bark are little branches you pluck off to grow saplings. These trees will build you a fine home someday.