There is a big, white wicker chair. The cushions are soft and deep. Floral prints abound; my legs are sheathed in a garden of quilts. In my arboretum of cloth, I huddle near the small caldron in my hands: a cup of warm cider. The sunlight in the room is the color of a naked soul. It’s bright and tranquil. Flutes of yellow spring to the floor as clouds pass by. Green grass runs breathlessly to the other side of the world. I have a big window that sparkles flawlessly. It’s just me, my big comfy chair, my steamy cider, and my citadel of quilts.

This place is perfect. Nobody bothers me here. I’m not lonely here. I can see it. I have a bureau of a thousand teas. I have beautiful china in a wooden cupboard.

When the rain falls, I open the window and let the rain kiss me a little. I let my body lilt, my posture slump, on my throne of ease. My beautiful, sapphire eyed cat is named Muffins. Muffins gives me the best love advice and looks like a snow ball.

At the end of the day, I recline in a claw-foot tub. Foam like cumulus frosts the fragrant, heated depths of the vat I’m in. And the most handsome angel carries me to my bed. He places me on the wonderful, deep tissue of a thousand clouds. I sleep with an adorable, furry baby seal (the seal is totally clean and smells good) and together (together, I say!) the sea pup and I sleep peacefully under the warmest down man ever touched.

My happy place, mmm. Where a handsome angel ferries me around in the sedan of his arms, and I never gain weight.

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