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"You press flowers between the pages of first-edition Dickens novels. Your job involves traveling to Italy and being pensive in rooms. You have a book-strap. You have a wrought-iron bed. You know how to applique. Any sorrow you experience is like fine tea, artfully staining the stationery of your life."The worst (best?) part is, that's basically the life of my daydreams. So, if any of my colleagues are reading this...all of those times you caught me blankly staring into space in my cubicle...this is where my brain has wandered...and I would prefer it if you didn't bother me while I'm busy making imaginary flower arrangements, or sipping imaginary tea in my imaginary wrought-iron bed.