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home
maybe it would be nice to have a home that wasnt made up
of echoes. you could walk into the room and not be assaulted
by them; they wouldnt leap out from the walls, the pictures,
the cheap furniture, or the thin carpet. but then again the
room is quiet, and the only rememberances come from what the
eyes reveal to me. i can feel them, though, the echoes,
beginning anew, growing louder, slowly gaining in intensity.
they rise, flowing from every corner, from every dusty relic.
they plead for answers, begging to know what went wrong. the
questions become more urgent, more stressed, more emphatic.
then the walls begin to bleed. but that is only ocean water,
isnt it?
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