Do you want to see my home? Please, step through the door. Come in.

Here’s the desk I haven’t been writing at – I guess that makes it the same as any other corner of my house. Sorry, I don’t know why I showed you.

Here’s the long-empty bottle of gin left by a man I said goodbye to before he had the chance to break my heart. I just liked the design of it.

Here’s the large window facing the street. It lets in the afternoon light quite nicely. Sometimes the idea that it’s just another orange square of anonymous light in the night starts to suffocate me. 

Here’s my collection of long-dead flowers, dried as a morbid keepsake of love from those that cared enough to bring me flowers as a gift. 

No, I said that wrong – those that I care about enough to dry their flowers and keep forever.

Here are the places that aren’t covered in piles of books, believe me, it’s faster this way.

Here are the plants, I agree, they look quite happy. You can wonder if I’m good at keeping things alive or good at replacing them.

Here’s a guitar whose strings are waiting to be played by the skilled fingers of someone across the ocean. We are quite similar, me and this guitar.

Here’s a dozen tiny holes scattered on the wall. If you care to get philosophical, I guess you could say they represent the wrong choices I made in life that I must live with now. 

But really, they are just holes in the wall.  Sometimes things just take a few tries before you get them right.

Here’s every answer to questions no one has ever asked me – yet they never seem to answer the questions I ask myself.

Oh, here’s the espresso machine.

Would you like a cup?

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