I heard we ran out of papers so you ran up around the walls of this house- thoughts scribbling on them like the paint we could not decide upon; like a troubled mentalist looking for solace the sound of your pen against the walls- how they went from flowing to screeching- hands now bleeding blue heart; you reached the porch where you underlined your first steps and her last; the bedroom a serenade between the sheets some- times a lie tucked away underneath; there are fractured stories in the woodwork finally seeping out. You are making the ceiling cry in the eulogic living room; the kitchen is a mess of lonely dinners. You left the library for the last. This was where you began a passion never ending fantasy; open up the curtains. The world will one day listen to the way a little scribble went to a house and came back a masterpiece.