She wants to find herself a little niche somewhere in between city and the countryside. There she'll construct a house made of paper, woven together by bits of daydreams and snippets of longings. Inside will smell of fallen leaves, and she'll watercolor the walls with songbirds and dandelions. There'll be tea in the cupboards and cakes in the fridge; cats will lounge flatly against the windows and somewhere, salvaged from her grandmother's centenarian dining room, a record player that will only tolerate Pavarotti and Swan Lake will be housed comfortably.
Mornings here are greeted with golden dawns and dark mugs of coffee. Evenings are celebrated with a fireplace and chamomile. There is plenty of time here for those menial things one leaves behind, those domestic little delights that newer generations have chosen to forget. Here, in a house of walls as thin as flesh, there is little separation between obligation and whimsy. One does as one wishes.
Stay here for a bit. Lounge and contemplate. Read and wonder.
But remember.
This is only a vacation house, a little oasis for troubled times. You mustn't come here too often. Beginning with the very tips of your extremities, you're sure to disappear bit by bit as soon as you hop the return train to Reality.
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