My apartment is filled with laundry and garbage.
There is a bicycle in the kitchen near the window.
A mattress on the floor of the bedroom.
And a smaller mattress leaning against the wall.
The floor is covered in a thin layer of rolling tobacco.
Three crates of vinyl albums in the main living area serve as a table for our things to accumulate.
Guitars and backpacks and shoes and crayons.
CDs and a chair and a rolling machine perched on a laundry basket.
The glade plugin radiates freshness and the scented candle has no scent.
Clutter is slowly closing in.
There is no lack of love.
It is a home.