When my studio was in my home, I would be painting right now.
I would feel the pull of the old creaky stairs, to my attic studio. I would look out the high window and see the sleepy neighborhood and I would feel that edgy sickness and thrill of being awake when I wasn't "supposed" to be. I would put my huge headphones on and turn up the music I knew would help me get lost and I would work for several hours at a time. I would see the sky turn from inky black over the mountain to that pale purple to grey blue. Sometimes, I would see the sun start to skim the tops of the trees and I would know it was time to stop working.
I would jump up and down, I would sing, curse, and have conversations in my head with the ghosts in my studio. I would paint for them and I would be happy.
I miss those times.