You don't know about my humble abode. Few people do. One to be exact. It was lived in once, and loved in. But in the absence of anyone willing to exist within it's walls, it has gotten dusty. As time goes on the dust eats away at it's floors and ceiling and walls. It goes unfurnished and empty. The paint is peeling and the wooden floors are becoming more and more warped with every passing day. Every time I visit I find a new leak in the ceiling or a new and empty place where there once was happiness and meaning. There is no happiness and meaning in my humble abode anymore. It was a mansion, once. It was glorious. Now only the remains of half-forgotten songs echo through it's rotting halls. Only rats and bugs bearing the remembered faces of former lovers twisted grotesquely by time and resentment.
For now I wish only for you to live there. I wish for you to cherish your time within my humble abode. I wish for it to be a place of peace and happiness. I think it could be just that.
But I'm sure there are many other homes you would rather live in than mine.
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