Some people feel like places. And these people are vacations. These places are people. Freckled wall paper. Foyer tunes whispered. They are supermarket candles. Wavering flames by way of unsealed windows. They are blinds, these places. And you see through. And you hope through, these people. Pulling back curtains of brunette hair, applause deserved. Delicate, delicate. The slightest noise could alarm clock and send you back to work. Silent, silent. It's rest. Try hard to relax. She's a mole between *******. She's scar tissue on an ankle. And this place, this place smells of honey; tastes like almond milk. "In a perfect world what would you do tonight?" Sleep in this place. Wake inside this person. Simple. Clean. In a perfect world, morning sewed with lavender clouds, tall grass, and a watercolor sun unseen before. And this place likes eggs over easy. And this person warmly invites like white lenin.