Monopoly with the family

I prepare my room, watching the golden rays of the sun fall down between the brick buildings of Sheffield. The sky is but a black, blueish tint, a sky cooling after the blazing sun is buried beneath the horizon. I stare at the body of my bed sheets, seeing the cotton leak out of the bedding, looking at the slit buttons as they fall to contain the sheet’s mattress. I look at my honey-draw flowers dripping into one another, they ooze out of my wall paper like fresh syrup. I see my lamp conceal my purest wihite light, like a flower concealing it’s pollen. I feel the skin of the wall, the smooth gentle paper graces my petite fingers. I feel the body of the wall beneath the golden, paper veneer. The bumpy concrete mammoth, the rocky-bones of this house. To live in a room without such vibrant wallpaper, would be akin to live without flesh. One would not could not imagine the taste, colour of touch, the gentle of every colour that pop from the gentle wallpaper. I wish I could bring such a room along with me, like a child dragging a balloon across the street. For when I move out to build my own life, slowly brick by brick I shall upon the tiny cracks and cravasses in the greyness of my n***d walls. When I gaze upon these skinless walls, I can only reminisce about the beauty of my room. Like staring at the picture of a loved one who has passed. However, the fluffy fletchling must never complain when it’s pushed out into the wet forest, parting from the warmness of Hen's embrace.