One can always dream.

Today I'm off in daydreams of my perfect place in life.

Picture this: Quiet, late summer afternoons, golden sunshine at an obtuse angle through the window; the musty, dry smell of hundreds of books tempered by the sharp, woody smell of good coffee, the soft scritch as a dragon shuffles and gets comfy on the cushion on the windowsill under the custom lamp. The reassuring weight and cashmere feel of a well loved book a delightful contrast to the initial cool smoothness of a worn leather chair, padding deep enough to hug and arms broad enough to chuck your knees over...

Or a crisp, frosty day, ice creeping up the window, the chill fended off by a softly crackling wood stove, the dull, comforting scent of the fire mingling with the sweet vanilla aroma of hot chocolate and the smell of old leather bindings. The feeling of curling up in a soft, high wingback chair, feet up on a small table besides a warm china cup filled with silky smooth cocoa and cream, sweet without the bitter tang of cheap chocolate - this is fine, thick melted luxury.

Perhaps a blustery wet morning, the old metal 50s radiator under the windowsill gently tinging as it heats; the damp, petrichor tang of wellies leaning by the door leaving mucky marks on the frame varnish, the smell bold against the muted scent of Breakfast Tea and bright, sweet orange juice. Small children quietly parked on beanbags, the murmur of a talented reader perched in the wingback, like storytellers of old, captivating young minds and rediscovering many tread paths through fresh eyes... 

Ah, for there is a whole heaven waiting to be caught up and swept into a reality. To sleep, perchance to dream. (Hamlet - III, i, 65-68)
One day. One day...