A Story of Times To Be

There is a house, a small house; the promise in its structure seen only by those who see what more there may be. Those two or three flew in, and lived within its rooms. 

There was a corner in a corridor, the reason for its vastness unknown, but there they placed an armchair and a lamp and that vacant place became warm.

Each had made a bed where they would sleep, but still would keep to rooms more common to all, for these three were linked by a likeness, and a genuine interest in each others company. 

Strewn about the place with untamed grace, all assortments of gathered and pillaged items lay; scarves and books, writings and instruments, pieces draped and placed and arranged with the aesthetic whims of scattered and inspired minds.

Outside, a small space for the grass to grow and insects to live, and for the air and the sunlight they lay a small table and chairs for sunny, cloudy, and breezy days.

And the heart of this place lay in the joy that each held in sharing the house with the others in the three, and welcoming within its walls those who they held dear.

There was a promise in these times, a vigour in the air, a restless stirring energy of hope and a freedom never lived before. They were youth, and this place let them be and grow.