On Sunday, my son rigged up a sheet as a sling between the couch and a chair. For hours, he hung out in this suspended sheet cradle. He was happy to be held by it and often made references to being a baby again. At one point, he asked that we talk about babies. I could not help thinking as I glanced over several times that day that his contraption looked like a cocoon. He regularly would emerge from the cocoon but he rarely moved from his position.
The mind can weave itself warmly in the cocoon of its own thoughts, and dwell a hermit anywhere. James Russell Lowell