I want to sit on crushed velvet and stare out my slightly foggy wrought iron rimmed window looking on the street below. I would spot people walking as they appear through the leaves of the tree that shades me. This tree dapples the sunlight that comes in in the morning and pours over the white cotton sheets i am tangled in. It would smell like richness and passion and the essence of everything you want to be. Old wooden tables flecked with paint, like colorful little reminders of what has happened on them before, would be the organs of the room and the skeleton would consist of imperfect crystals and bottles that are scattered around like glitter. It would be home and it would be magical. No one would wear shoes and everyone would be smarter and richer when they left.