There are concrete places, which are places of memory as well
and they become nearly abstract in their parallel dimension.
The feather couch is metaphysical, theoretically it’s soft and cosy, but it’s impossible to sit there.
It looses immediately its shape, it becomes dented and suffering under the violating weight of a body.
It’s like a “soufflé”, which nobody is allowed to taste, but it’s possible only to look at it through the oven window.
Opening the oven would make it sadly collapse.
If an innocent and unaware guest would sit there, charmed by that promising softness,
like Ulysses by the mermaids’ song,
He would be absorbed, swallowed by the feathers, like is they were quicksand…
Besides all that, as soon as a brave survivor manage to extirpate himself from the couch,
mother gets materialized from nothing and, with quick and precise movements,
in a second shakes up the cushions, which must never keep any trace of human shapes…