13
I remember coming down to this house in the midst of winter when the trees were stripped naked and the roads of the city were frozen through. Felt like I’d stepped into a fairytale world, shaped by heroin and wasted dreams, everything broken back to the barest bones. Knee deep in strange language that you’d just see everywhere, tossed around crude and careless, hanging empty upon the walls. The house, too, was empty, and lonely for lack of ghosts. Thought it was so damn big. It’s not so big any more, though I’m yet to go everywhere.
