In these stuck between hours I discover the noise of being that comes from an atmosphere not used to being heard
The warping of the wooden doors goes on unabashedly. Like animals in untouched climes they scurry along unaware of conscious eyes that stare only for selfish reasons
The observer adulterates a once selfless night
Nowadays the timbers under the floor have lost their native timbre, taken on a softer echo of carpet covered servility
Even after mistakes are recovered, these once savage floors can no longer reclaim any primal creak after being tucked into domesticity for so long with soft footsteps of children paired with repressed stomps of soul-starved adults left cold by countless other floors never once imbued with the life of a home.