A Better Ceiling To Read By?

A more beautiful ceiling to read by.
Today.
In the Big City.
In the old city.
Not new.
Like yesterday's ceiling.
None of that lowbrow, suburban, sprayed-stucco sameness.
Back in the day doing a ceiling was a craft.
Handmade.
Not spit out by a hose.
A hose, a nozzle can spew out only the same craft.
But in a hand there is differentiation and the unexpected.
A hand can shape and spread and swirl stucco.
My ceiling is also painted blue.
Like the sky.
Like the sky of the Infinite Jest book cover.
And it has a decent light fixture -
Which not only provides light to read by but also lights my soul.
This ceiling is decidedly happier than the one in my mother's burbs.
But it is distracting me from my "reading" isn't it?
Is it perhaps too beautiful?
Am I reading less now because there is too much beauty and happiness and success and knowledge in my life now?
Does a beautiful setting defeat the need to find beauty and inspiration and knowledge in reading?
Why read when you can just lay back and stare at a ceiling and get lost in your own thoughts?