My house is resinous and translucent. The sunlight floats in like powdered fire, and even as the walls crumble they rebuild themselves.
I'm alone here, but who knows who was with me last night, when the moon was new and it's light feeble?
The leather chair holds me in familiar arms. In the golden light, the warm leather, the familiar room, everything is well and good. I watch the horses graze, as they chew unselfconscious of observation.
I was alone last night, but what does it matter?