We have a bed that is nearly impossible to climb out of in the morning, especially a cold morning. It's a spacious king, with super-thick featherbed below and super-thick down comforter above. This acre of an evil bed traps us in a sandwich of comfort so complete, it's like being suspended in a warm marshmallow cloud. There is a feeling of weightlessness, a true out-of-body sensory revelation that whispers in our ears that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to skip work today and possibly tomorrow and perhaps forever, and lounge in luxurious toastiness until the world ends. All in all, it wouldn't be a bad way to go.
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