I close my eyes. There is a home inside here somewhere. I remember. It sinks slightly to the left. My knees are covered in mud. The trees have pushed into the living room, sunflowers are rotting out the woodwork. I have grown awkwardly into the floorboards. They remind me that is okay. I forget. It keeps me full, all this emptiness. The windows are all open. The hinges let go of every door. I learn. Trace the outline of each frame, hear the echo of hollow footsteps: "Love more, love more, love more." I have never been here before. This is what it must be like; beginning.