I live in a room of windows with no door. A room of glass. I made the draperies, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, to cover the windows at night. I made them of heavy fabric, lined with linen, interlined with felt. When I close them, I light the lamps and the room is warm, comforting, intimate, protective. All day the draperies are open and hang gathered straight as columns, straight as royal sentinels, in the corners of the room. The room has four corners, four glass walls. All day the world outside the glass is filled with fog. All day the room is filled with cool distant light. Outside one window is a view of a city street. Outside another window is a view of treetops. Outside the third is a view of the ocean. Outside the last is a view of cacti, but there is no desert. Inside is a soft bed, a comfortable chair, many pillows and many books. If I never leave this room I will have a better life than you, anyone you know, and anyone on this planet.
Why do I choose the lesser life?
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