cold_house raze i woke to what i thought was the groaning of the house that holds me. wood and brick. plaster and paint. warping and weaving and panting and peeling. stepping into something gentler than the gunshot moves my tallest bookshelf makes when it has something on its mind. but the sound i heard was only me, making an early meal of my own brittle benedictions, half-remembered from more certain times. 221204 what's it to you? who go blather from