There's a place that I now only get to see from behind my eyelids. A small craftsman. Nine months of the year, the doors and windows left open, and it smells like earth, sawdust, and the remnants of what was last cooked in the cast iron pan.
I used to lay in that house and feel my breath move with the elements; they crept into the house like a small creature foraging for food - cautious at first, but hungrier and more eager with each step. The apoptotic leaves would dance their dance of death across the room and vanish out the back door never to be seen again.
But for a few of those leaves, that house became their tomb. Their dance was a little heavy on the feet, and they trapped themselves under beds of lovemaking and slumber. With the weight of each trapped leaf, the house sank a little deeper into the earth, pulling me along with it into the vestigial respite of nature.
Maybe this is what a 'dream home' really is. Not the place I want while conscious, when demons whisper in my ear, but the refuge my mind seeks in weary sleep.