On the restorative capacity of antique malls

They are the only malls that interest me: to scour their aisles and booths of the odd and the strange and the beautiful with no inclination of what we're looking for – sometimes, like yesterday, accompanied by a friendly, one-eyed tour-guide calico – in a general faith that we'll know it when we find it, maybe, is one of our favorite things to do on those rare nowadays when we have a chance to actually be a married couple, to go somewhere together not predicated upon being in close proximity to another doctor's appointment or within quick, back-road ass-hauling driving distance should another life-altering event and/or mental bomb — planted by those unable to shut the fuck up for thirty seconds — be triggered as soon as we deign to cross the county line. Marriage counseling via antique mall: it works wonders. 

Thinking of going to IKEA next week to get another three-cubed shelf to close myself off in my little corner of the Sanctum when I'm back here but I'm worried that that place might undo the work of the antique mall and that it might be a better idea to wall myself off behind concrete with a bucket and an insulin pen should I wish to vanish but then again, maybe it'll provide another excuse to visit another antique mall – not that we need one: we just need the time.

P.S. Remind me to never again underestimate the value of good lighting in the writing cave; my eyes are thanking me.