It was 1919. I knew this, because my owner bought newspapers, and read them to me from the head of the table. His Hearth was weak. He did not care much for his home, and he brought many people into it, none of them for very long. His heart did not burn. It was cold and chilled the house around him. But nonetheless, he was my owner, and I cared deeply for him. He was a tall man, and not very well-dressed. He tended to favor very silly looking turbans. I was merely an apartment, and not particularly skilled in the ways of human fashion, but even I could tell that they were ridiculous.
hellskitchensink 