Sanctuary in Solitude

My soft, brown, velvet made couch. Large enough for me to stretch my feet, yet small enough to support only me. My sanctuary and place of peace, like a throne I rest ever so comfortably. After experiencing this seat fit for a queen, no other seat can do me justice. While on this seat I feel free, more comfortable, than even when I sleep. When I sit, the cushion sinks in so deep almost like I’m floating on a cloud. Whether it be studying, reading, laughing, looking, feeling, or just sitting, nothing induces focus like my velvet made couch. There could be an all-out war two feet from me, but if I’m seated on my couch it’s like I don’t even hear a sound. When I rest it feels like I’m in space, I don’t even weigh a pound. Comfort so intoxicating the only thing I fear is setting foot on ground. This couch of mine smells like all my favorite things in the world delicately mixed into one scent. It’s as old as a couch can get, but the older something is the greater the experience it contains. It’s as if I was blind, but now I see, this velvet couch of mine is the sanity of my being. Without it, I would have no place in the house where the acoustics are so perfect I hear everything from a pin drop to a gun shot. It feels like there is a secret underworld beneath, mystery as vast the universe. If only you could see what I see, feel what I feel, smell what I smell, and if only you had this seat. I would never trade such a pleasure for anything. My velvet couch completes me, as it sits like me, beneath me.