Everything I write has a consequence , like nails scratching down an ivy riddled house... accompanied by endless bloodied noises my fleeting sanity escapes for a second and the framework is engulfed in fire, burnt in the moment of time that the chimney breaks, morphing into a grotesque shriveling mass of smoke hiding from the surface, from the light... it all seems so simple- words are nothing more than letters, tears nothing more than broken hope and yet staring out the window of orbs coated in a moss of denial I find myself wishing and hoping for the other toppled homes to be healed and restored to a childlike gaze of wisdom, it never surfaced that I was killing myself by saving the masses and that sometimes the sacrifice wasn't worth the toll. The house was dying of an internal disease. A curse of sorts. The exterior bricks longed to be removed one by one, torn from their holding places, thrashed too and fro. The shutters wanted a release from rotting hinges and the door wanted to creak and snarl with the protest of an adolescent mind. Blood is blood and brick is brick and a building is sculpted from high hopes and expectations that the frame cannot hold, for sometimes we forget the architectural catastrophes we build within ourselves.