I think about that quiet place I call my private room, a little slice of peace I've made from my identity. It's not a thing I have in life — too much is closed to me — but it is something cherished that I dream about sometimes.
A warm and hearthful study full of things I've made my own, art and tools and photographs of moments from my life; flame and flowers painting butter light across the room, spackled bits of color feeling red despite their hues.
Some books and discs and photographs that tell a story each; pick just one and ask of me its meaning and I'll tell. We'll spend the midnight hours sharing secrets in this place, a webwork of emotion spread about this quiet room.
Revelry and artistry and nourishment at once make this place something special: somewhere I can go and Be. Vitality and passion and the stories that we tell will make this place yet richer, a place we call our home.
