dream_house raze on the bus, you tell me to turn my head and look out the window while you borrow glasses and a hairpin from the woman in front of you. peripheral vision spoils the surprise. absent electricity, the abandoned house we call home is quiet and cold. the locks still answer to the call of our keys. the air, thick with sawdust, stings our lungs. you walk on all_fours, hobbled but unhurt by all that did its level best to break you before we were rodents running full-bore into the arms of the unreal. 260219 what's it to you? who go blather from