The light turns on in the studio and tiny living things scatter in the florescent. You use it for surfing the internet for the perfect wingtips, he uses it for watching you surf the internet. Both of you rent the space to write, to work, to have. It was his idea: he found it on Craigslist. You’ve always wondered who this Craig fellow is anyway, and why his List does not have a more sensible search feature (revenge for a bitter Missed Connection, you venture). He was insistent, so now you have a studio. It’s everything that’s wrong with us, he says even after you’ve moved in your massive L-shaped desk and your extra monitors- it’s a space we can devote to our passions. There are a variety of more appropriate place you can think of for this sort of thing, places that you’re already paying for and that are not in a drafty warehouse, but you just nod at him and try to ignore the band practicing next door as the dust vibrates on your desk. Black or brown? That’s your more pressing question. Full or semi-brogue? The search continues.