It's out of my control...

Two days ago, I stepped off of my elevator and was greeted by this wooden buffet table, of sorts. I think that in its' prime, it was chic and brought a great 1950's living room together.  In 2008, I can see it's years, it's neglect, it's probably opposition to everything else furniture-wise that it cohabitated an apartment with. 

Last night, I dreamt about working on this table, laboring over its' clean lines and cute peg legs. I dreamt that I was sanding it down in an open garage and getting it ready for a deep stain with a light crackle paint coating to appropriately antiquate it. Never mind the fact that I have no open garage space, the only painting I've ever done is my nails, and as far as sanding goes, I can't even touch a nail file because it gives me the goose-bumps.

And as I walked by my dream table, patiently sitting in my hall to be dragged down to the dumpster, I imagined somehow dragging it down to my car, putting my seats down, shoving it in, and driving it to my aunt's house for safekeeping. Even know, I am imagining where this table could be theoretically placed in my phantom home.  You may call me crazy, whatever that means, but I call the table possessed with the ability to draw me in.