The dull caramel kettle sat on the stove.
It didn’t really want to be there. It’s cold out here.

The light in the kitchen shone past clothes and pans, the only light I could protect my eyes with.

Rushes of rivers ran in the toilet as if mountains lived in the shallow ponds on the floor.

It scared me. I thought a man with a black hat used the the tap and he heard my heavy breathing.  

It’s knitting.
And I can feel it walking out in my mind and I can feel it, looking at me as I look at it, it’s careful and eerily gentle eyes stared back at me.
Maybe it’s God’s angels protecting me.