Living for Books

I. Want. This. Wall. (Found here, at the Arch Daily site.)

The house, perhaps predictably, is the house of a writer. The Missus says — when she’s trying to pick me up from the doldrums — that she believes I can write almost anything. To which I say, “How do I find out what this writer writes? And how do I write the same stuff?”

Of course the name of the client is confidential, although we know the house is in Costa Rica. Probably turn out to be a Nobel laureate or something, and damn but there go my hopes.

Wonder if s/he has a BookRabbit.com account?