As far back as I can remember, I've always been fascinated with a small cottage in the middle of a forest. There is ivy on the whitewashed walls. It's small, maybe two or three rooms at most. Nearby a quiet lake waits for skipping rocks and reflection. Some of the details escape me, but the feeling survives. The whole scene gives me the sense that I'm safe, I'm home. Nothing can harm me there, and I can stay there forever. I have yet to see inside the small abode, but I know I've been there before. I would take a trip there, but there is a problem:
It now only exists in my mind.
This is the home I've always dreamed of--the home I used to live in.
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