A Gallery called home.

There was a little white house. It was very square, clean - neat. A very select group of objects sat in this house. But this house was a bit weird. Life was not quite real inside. The air was still. The lights stared at the objects, but casted no shadows. It was like floating in a thought bubble. This little white house never quite felt like home. I often felt like I had out stayed my welcome.

Around the corner was another house. It had a red door. The windows were open and the air breezed through. The couches hugged you like a friend.  Someone was always home. Time cruised by. The afternoons were long, the nights were deep. We were always chatting. This house was a speech bubble. Ideas brainstormed. Thoughts inspired. But again, reality is confused. This house feels like home, but nobody lives here.