45 The Red Threads
The house is sinking. To everyone else, it looks the same as it always has but I know the truth. Its insides are rotting and crumbling. The imploding ceilings are striking them all on the heads so they leave the house feeling dazed and detached from everyday life. Soon perhaps they will be stuck inside because all the doors will be blocked and the stairs a pile of dust, shaved down by pressure.
When I’d been falling apart, I didn’t see this all clearly. I saw their grief painted on their sullen faces, their ragged clothes and ragged skin, in their diminishing forms. Yet with the house, only the edges of the wallpaper had begun to peel and fall off. The red paint on the front door had begun to c***k, the grass in the front garden grown wild and unshaven.
Looking at th
