A quiet place to read, perchance write, is all need one seek in a heaven.
You already know your souls need. There are no obstacles but what you must leave behind, to acquire.
Retreating with a book and my slanted thoughts to the cafeterias of the world would surely see me through.
Sincerely, I hope in my heart for that day not long from now, with dear children of my own and a contented soul for the scene. Then can I slip a moment unseen from the reverie, to my present self who could not such things dare perceive, and translate to him small relief.
Upon waking, recover a quiet place to the skies exhibit, and hold there a harmony of clear and untainted perception. Consider the airs fond occupants; silent clouds that, straying one reach to the other, renew themselves in hopes your notice to keep; the bashful sun, by your own radiance reduced, steals away with its shame to the cotton shroud and looks with sad revere. How all of nature so cherishes you.
I happened upon the corner of Earth today, and suspended there by a decimated sun, it was not grief that so utterly wrought, but a pure and heaping rejoice to the heart. I realised then that striving brought age too early, and if this was the great engulf, the end of all things, it seems I’d been saved at the last hour.