I have a small humidor that always baffles me when it comes to keeping the humidity stable. I don’t have a huge stash of cigars. Humidors at cigar shops intimidate me too. Too many choices, and I have no idea about all the different sizes, but I love the way they smell. I can’t smoke in the house. My wife won’t allow that. Outside for an occasional smoke, it’s too hot right now.
I’m never disappointed sitting in that recliner, grabbing the remote, feet propped up. Hell, I’m writing this in between clients. I can’t wait to be there.
I read an article about the rooms where famous writers worked. Hemingway’s study in Key West, filled with books, trophies and art. I’ve got golf balls staring at me. Photos of pints that I drank in Scotland. Two guitars hanging on the wall that look like art to me.
No waves outside my window, just a siren or a plane flying over. That’s fine.
My room asks nothing of me other than what music, Bourbon or Scotch, what book. Decisions have to be made. Do I take a nap or put a CD in? I can do both at the same time!
If only my wife would let me have a cigar.
Perpetual Break 
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