There’s nothing out of the ordinary on this Tuesday morning, nothing at all. It’s the same purple room, cluttered with objects which possess sentimental value (although those memories are fading). And lively jazz whispers from the speakers as a scented candle burns brightly in the corner of the room. My thoughts are as scattered as the clothes hanging everywhere in the room. And it’s all perfect. This is how I want to live for a while. I can see it. My imperfections create a comfortable world and nothing makes me happier than waking up to melodic jazz and apple cinnamon scents.