A certain house outlives its builders, it's first tenants, maybe it's second tenants, perhaps scores and generations of passerbys. It is a way point on a larger scale of time than an inn. It is something that is owned, yet never owned. The house is like a mother, and its tenants are her children. She enfolds them under her wing. She stands tennaciously through the wind and the rain, the bitter cold snow and the pounding hail.
We force our changes upon this protectress. We force her to conceal our darkest secrets. We scar her with nails and make her carry our memories and desires, covering her walls with the heavy images of exotic worlds where we imagine ourselves to be happy. We bore her with holes and invite corruption to diffuse itself into the rooms, until it is reflected in every corner, under every table. Colors and sounds of fear. The mother cries, she bears testimony to her pain, yet we drown her angiush in our business. We silence her moaning frame with hypnotic information, and we lose ourselves to sedation on soft surfaces. We feel her yet think only of the hardness. We forget her. And in our forgetfulness we trample her. She bears the filth of our travels, our earthly wanderings, and it collects. She wipes our soles.
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