Had a thought. Had to write. So, a snippet of something I may continue:
"Danni was doing the dishes. And as she did the dishes, she thought of the house.
It was surrounded by trees, in the middle of mountains, near the edge of a cliff, over looking the ocean. There were creeks nearby, or running water within the walls of the house; little streams snaking from corridor to corridor. It was a house of many windows and hearths—more a part of the outdoors than real construction. But it would be made out of wood and tree and stone and, in some places, even marble. And many other things she could not name. It would have a wonderful kitchen with a fire to cook on, not just a stove, and it would be filled with the smells of warm bread pudding and mulled wine in the winter, and fresh basil and thyme and lemon in the summer, strawberries and mint in the spring, and always the smell of fresh roses.
Danni dreamed of this house. She held onto it in the small parts of her: the corners of her thoughts, her finger bones. She breathed this house. She had no idea where it was, or how she would find it. She dreamed she would build it. She hoped for this house-- an endless architect in her mind. She did not know when it would happen, in the midst of all the rest of the days, or where or why.
But today, she found herself acutely aware that the house, itself, was far less important than the dreaming of it. It was a necessary thought, to hope for it. And live longer in the hoping."
