What is it about Prague?

It's not the beer, at least it's not a woman, and I'm pretty sure it's not the history, but when I wake up everyday, packed and ready to go, I can't muster up the will to walk down to the train staion on the cobble stone streets that have left, permanently, their mark on me and say goodbye. My hostel room is like an apartment. It's not an apartment exactly but because a lack of word creation, apartment is the closest term. Situated on the third floor, it includes a kitchen, a fridge, a shower, two sinks, two floors, and a full set of unused lockers. For dramatic effect, I forgot to mention the most jaw-dropping detail, I'm all alone. The hostels has a gorgeous garden with four well aged trees all in bloom. the trees are of two types, one with lush blue flowers and the other with white fragile blossoms of white and pink wrapped around three long stamen. I've pressed them all to remember the garden, and the pictures will act as a way to duplicate it for my future abode. I have used these two facilities everyday. Both act as art, reading and drawing, areas but, specifically, the room is a perfect place to work out. The stairs are elevated pushups, and the little loft floor is a handhold for pullups. The beds foot bars are for situps and the corner of the kitchen for dips. The Hostel, situated on a looming hill, is always atleast a mile walk from anywhere in old town and is the perfect run. It is ideal. The sheer fact that this place exists is inconceivable. I have to leave tomorrow. Its been decided that I must walk those cobble stone streets, the communist museum that turns into a debate club with drinks around actual artifacts at night, and the hill tops around the city that were cleverly made into beer parks to sit in silence, sip smoothly, and just watch. Copenhagen in the fog ahead. When the sun starts peaking out I'll be in Norway. But it rises when I step off that plane and smell that unmeddling, uncorrupted, air of Bozeman Montana.