why is a raven...

Today I realized how much I want a writing desk.
I mean an ancient, dark-stained wooden antique. Maybe roll-top, with a hundred little drawers each requiring a little silver key. A tall behemoth of a desk, with a high-backed chair, in which I could perch myself regally, pen gracefully clasped.
No computer, either. Just crisp paper... perhaps a variety of stationary, and a smooth-writing pen. Black ink. A drawer for envelopes, stamps, a drawer for sealing wax, staples, filing folders.
Oh the dreams of this romantic obsessive-compulsive. Will they ever come to fruition?

I just want a writing desk. And a dark house to put it in, cloaked with mildew and insence, heavy draperies, echoing softly the footfalls of a cat.