this house is full of stories. it took decades to get this many pictures on the wall. we all exist together under this roof. but at night, we're all somewhere else. everyone coughs from one too many cigarettes. swallows always find their way back home. i wonder how many pictures line this wall.

her hands are so small, yet they hold so much. i see everything in the spaces between her fingers. blissfully unaware of what lies ahead, i hope she's ready for it.

how many ghosts live in these walls? family photos harbor dust. boxes cover the floorspace. furniture moves, it's unsettling. the impermanence of it all makes this place seem dead. it's odd how many things one person can own & still have nothing. love used to flow through each room. all that's left is dust. you can't make a home out of an empty building. you're just moving furniture around now. & when you leave, each memory will stay. the word 'home' will not be said here again. it's finally silent, save for the echoes.

in every day, there is a short span of time. a tiny corner only a certain kind of man knows of. he will sit alone in a dark room, smoking a cigarette or maybe finishing off last night's bottle. the rest of the world is a sleeping giant. it knows nothing of this corner or what happens here. soon the man will have to leave his empty bed & face the giant. it will do to him as it pleases. but the man will have hope. his corner awaits him.

my emotional state is all over the map. the house roars & with it, the brain. i miss the calm before the storm. peace is a lie. memories are made while thinking about how great a memory this moment will one day be. i miss living in the moment. years drag along, their feet are tired. the geography of emotion cracks slowly.