While walking along the shore, I happened upon a sand castle. It seemed to have been made with loving care; intricate designs scalloped into its surface. Only the best sand had been used to make this castle. Cylindrical turrets stood sentinel along the mighty fortress wall and in the center loomed a stately tower. Little windows were carved in a couple of centimeters so that one might pretend to see inside. I planted myself a few feet away from the sandy manor, rolled onto my tail bone, wrapped my arms around my drawn-in legs, rested my chin on my knees, and imagined sweeping ceilings lined with crown molding, marble pillars, and intimate trinkets lining handmade shelves and cases.

I dreamed of enormous ballrooms with brilliant chandeliers and private quarters with crackling fireplaces and cozy down comforters. Perhaps the tower housed an octagon-shaped library with one of those attached rolling ladders, each wall book-lined from floor-to-vaulted-ceiling. Except, perhaps, for a large bay window kissing a cushioned cubby seat where one could curl up with whichever fruit of literature was picked from the surrounding grove of paper, glue, and weathered bindings.
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