I don't know why I picture my old office that way.
I do know the office where I worked is closed: the Herald's competitor the East Oregonian bought it earlier this decade, and moved it a few blocks down Hermiston's Main Street into what had been the EO's western Umatilla County bureau (the EO is based in Pendleton). The Herald had been there for decades. It had a lived-in, vintage feel. It had an interestingly awkward second floor in the back that looked out over the main floor; the interior wall between the front news/reception/ad sales area and the layout area didn't reach the ceiling, so one could see to the front doors. (Now I'm glad I didn't have co-workers who liked to yell down from there.)
I worked in that office for three fascinating years, September 1997 to August 2000. It, and the semi-desert area where Hermiston is located, is a recurring setting for my dreams. I usually dream of Hermiston at night, but better lit than night in the desert is supposed to be, like it's a gigantic set. (No, it's not lit the way Las Vegas is lit. The light is more subtle than that.) Only the interiors are darker than they should be. It only dawns on me now that I've pictured it that way. I don't know why. Maybe my subconscious knows why, or maybe it's trying to figure that out, too.
My subconscious seems to be trying to figure out a lot. Yes, Chris, even after this year of a lot of soul-searching, there's plenty more potential soul-searching waiting.