"You're absolutely out of your tree"And I said"Yes and I'm awfully sad about it, it was really a very nice tree".
It's not easy to think about lush velvet curtains and rich fur rugs when you're living in a dead-end apartment in a dead end town next to a dead-end forest. But that's what I want. I want to think about pink walls and floaty chiffon curtains. I want to wistfully and morosely lament that I have plywood floors that need buffing every good weekend. I want to wail that my beautiful persian carpeting bears the dust from my ivory lamps. I want to proudly yet humbly show off my chandelier, to warmly experiment with my induction cooker and stainless steel pans. I want to live out of a high bed with an iron back, velvet brocade sheets and lush silk hangings. The canopy would be decorated with intricate gold and red thread, the walls mahogany panelling, the floor adorned with a fluffy alpaca rug. There shall be a swing, made of pink wood and fine gold chain. There I shall sit through the balmy summer evenings sipping chai tea and savoury lattes, while burying my nose in the latest thriller or mystery novel. The front yard is brimming with pretty azaleas, green peas and tomatoes. I have a private garden where the red robin christianed Bert sings his tunes out at the top of his voice. The birdhouse is yellow and spacious, and Bert soons makes a home out of it with his new wife Victoria. There they will have tiny red fledgelings, whom I shall call Gardenia, Tulip and Bing respectively. My house shall be warm and inviting, a place of comfort and solace. My house is like my tree. It is supporting and firm. During Hallows Eve I will stand on my porch and smile while handing out gummy bears and gum balls to little children. The wind will whip through my hair and whistle through my chimney. The leaves shall roll across the sidewalk, and I will laugh.