A lonely, musty, sweaty dance studio, after everyone leaves to go home. No light, just darkness, all but one little room which gleams with light like a gate to heaven in the middle of fate. The door is stuck open as though it has been there for years, in that exact place. The floor, sticky from hours of being danced on clings to my feet like I am its only hope. A light mist of breath lay sleeping on the mirror. I place my hand on a barre, it feels like laughter on my hands, a feeling I have every day. Being alone in a studio I practically live in is nothing hard. To most people a sweaty mirror and floor are not a gift. A rusty door and barre is a disgrace. A heater hanging on it’s last screw is a cry for help. To me, it’s a home, a place I wish to spend my days, a mystical castle, a dream.