A library full of books with a sliding stairs on its shelf. A first class ticket to a destination of my choice, accompanied with a limitless credit card. 

On somedays, that thing could be as simple as a good, sturdy mattress covered with warm, clean sheet, with a pillow with just the right amount of support for my neck, and a fluffy duvet. Yet the more I think about it, the more futile a thing is. Typically, a thing in itself is an insufficient means to happiness – it is the experience, reaction, and all the other exogenous factors that stem from it. It is never just how good a book is. It is the immersive encounter with fictional friends and foes, the indulgence of disconnecting from real life, real issues.

Ignorance is a bliss, indeed. And The Nile? Is not just a river in Egypt.