On his way home from school, the homescapes grows progressively more crooked and unshapely the closer to Eden's house. Like out of a child's sketchbook, colour and personality make up for poor architecture. Having become nearly indistinguishable from one another, the neighbouring houses’ walls melt together, their roofs gliding off, with black, hairy mould filling every c***k, eyes occasionally peeking out through them. Surrounding the academy are, fittingly, the purest bunch of the town. Eden can no longer remember what his neighbourhood once looked like. The dirt and mould, on the other hand, he remembers always being there, minus the budding eyes. For the neighbourhoods’ steady decline into bizarreness progressed as subtly as one’s own aging: as unnoticeable as apparent.
The creaky met
