March 25, 2004
The upstairs of this house is opened today like pores in a steam room by these familiar warm fronts of coffee aroma. There have been gaps between the people. Once, only antiquity and basement mote rose up, slowly filling the rooms. Last week I slept here alone, settled between the towers of sealed banana boxes. There were a dozen dozen ladybugs weightless dead on stale blue rugs; nothing flying nowhere not scents, not noises, not furniture, not frames, not family. There is a smell of non-living in the loose carpet, moving in the completely empty rooms and lying casually in the vents. A smell of the house lagging between two families; an anticipation and a remembrance. There are houses without a street or name. I’d like to never move in, but linger in this eerie smell of non-living that has no memory and no demands.
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