There are beautiful things that live in my house they tend to occupy the fractured crevices inside of my walls, adumbrating a kind of obscure phenomenon: shadowy luminescence they tend to sink into the spaces between the ceiling and the roof, immersed in chocolately darkness and dust, eating termites for supper they tend to isolate themselves in the acidic liquid of my kitchen sink, bathing in rotting rye and leftover cherry wine, finding peace in polarization, a prize in the priceless, a perfection in the pitfall There are beautiful things that live in my mind they tend to whisper to me because they know I can discriminate between their desperately voluminous silk and the vortex of thickening threads that cages my cognition in demonic demands There are lots and lots of beautiful things but beautiful things donβt ask for attention they tend to slink in the shadows.