I know of a place where the walls are sugar-coated and the floors are swirled; the doors boarded up and the windows tinted with rain.
Light pours in but only to cast shadows of the silent thunderstorms ahead.
None could forsee, in any way possible, under such gayness and heat, but what consents the imaginable to exist is not the will of logic, but the sense of melodrama, the longing for a foreign scenery or an unyielding path, where the world’s malaise to your uniqueness becomes a delight relished in secret.
It’s where the beanies hung to dry, the tail wagged in front of mirrors, and the blazers perfectly pressed in the closet somewhere safe.
Such is the place called home, shrunk by the coldness of the blazing bonfires, fed to feed the worthy, fed to birth the hungry.