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My couch is my friend.

It is there when I wake up and waits for me patiently while I’m at work.

It is the first thing I see when I get home.

The last thing I see before bed.

Each cushion on my couch is different.

One keeps my top half comfortable and safe. It has moulded its life around mine like a Grandmothers embrace.

While the other, a little harder and always so distant, tends to my legs and my feet when they are tired.

My couch has a blanket.

Sometimes, I borrow it to keep me warm against the cool of the winter, or the fright of a howling wind.

Other times I look at my couch, with its blanket draped over its shoulders.

They must be old friends, I think.

The cushions, the pillows, the blanket.

These are my friends.

Before, and after work.

When I’m sad, or frightened.

Or perhaps if only to escape; for a moment.