Somewhere in the world, high an a sea too cliff there is a little town. And on the edge of that town lies a little cottage. It’s separated from the town by a small grove of trees. It’s surrounded by a low wooden fence that’s bent slightly too the right from too much wind. The front yards slightly overgrown and the shutters are light green. The cottage is painted white but it’s more of a light grey, coated from decades of salty air. On the porch sits a chair. Big enough to curl up in and sturdy enough to hold anyone. Inside the cottage is a bedroom, right off the kitchen. With a window facing the sea. Two of the walls are covered in bookshelves. Every shelf double filled with books. In fact the whole room smells slightly of old paper. The other walls hold an assortment of shelves filled with Knick knacks and artwork hangs in between. The room is taken up by a bed. One that is always the right temperature. No matter how hot or cold. During the day the window is left open and by night the room smells like salt spray and books. Old bookstores. And sunny beaches. Bliss.