Not a flat. Not a miserable tiny apartment in the back. Not a prosperous lonely man's house. Not your dad's. A house all my own. With my spotless porch and fluffy pillow, my pretty purple pansies. My chamomile tea. My tales and my vinyl records. My two shoes with untied laces waiting beneath the cabinet. Nothing to write home about. Nobody has anything against.
Only a quiet house after it snows. A pleasant place surrounded by shady trees. A place for myself to go, clean as parchment without ink leak and proper as the basic manner that should be taught in your school.
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