It's a small place, but size is no constant here.

Walls made of dirt, a low ceiling, somehow this place stays clean enough, not really any dust.

Here is where the hermit makes his food, he makes stews, stores his spices
cuts his wild mushrooms and throws all of it on his clay stove.

His body craves warmth, his mind craves distractions and his soul craves companionship
his eyes a flowing rainbow of jewels and concepts
he hopes to find someone who sees like him