It’s possible that some people like to live with the thrill (buzz?) of live electrical wires hanging from the ceiling. Not me. Call me old fashioned, but I’d rather not take my life into my hands each time I enter my study. Which is why my books are still all in boxes and my antique desk is still disassembled.
It would be just fab if you could please reappear to finish the work you started. Being a transient writer has its limitations… dinner time being one of them, when my makeshift desk AKA the dining table, is required for other duties.
Besides, I can hear my homeless books weeping from neglect. They must be set free.