A bike in a briefcase. Of course.

This bike makes me wish I lived in a place where it made sense to have it but also to think of context...

Have you ever caught yourself in the sort of reverie where you're sitting on a chair in one of the various rooms that are your life, looking around at your present and having this sort of deep but elusive feeling that you are out of context? That maybe you're in the wrong story? Maybe you know you're an Austen or Hemingway or Dickens but when you look around it's more like the local newspaper or a .99 magazine or...the Simpsons (no offense Simpsons people). I recently heard it said that many of us dream better lives than we live, spending more time in “what if” and less time in “what is.” But maybe when we're sitting there perplexed about our life it's because there should be more, that it should be different that the "what ifs" should be "what are". So the question becomes where. Where in our life is there an avenue for a new story, for creating some proper context and for maybe a dream or two to come true.
Like living in that perfect city where the briefcase bike is right at home.