And when I come home I have tiny pinpoint bruises and my fingers are torn in the joints, and I am worried about my glassy teeth. The shards of glass in my teeth wearing them away. And nothing feels comfortable and I fall asleep thinking about the ground underneath houses. And the light that comes through the grills underneath houses and skeletal remains of insignificant things. Joists, sook, nova, poly. How all the dust collects around my face, and in my eyes and comes out in greying streams in the shower. And how I would like go to Jenis with Abby, or do a country walk with Barry all English cider afternoon, mayflies and sunlit. Soon.

And I am tired and I am breathing in air like it is more important than anything else, and I can feel fragments in my throat. they fall down as you cut in. and always having to change the blades. sand. And I am lying with my head down wanting to fall asleep against the black polyethelene. And the living room was almost perfect, as if the owner had decided to not do any alterations in forty years. Like all these houses. So many different wallpapers, so many browns and pinks. honey where you been so long.