go to the eastern edge of the united states, where the land turns into sea and stillness hangs in the southern places like a cloud. no, not new york, go down, past the bustle of the cities where and virginia turns to north carolina. to the right a couple miles, down a ways, and look upon a little city in the foothills. observe the artists in the cultural center, the grimness of the poorer neighborhood, and finally, the quiet upper-middle-class neighborhoods near the university. pass the best burgers in america, take a right, and walk down to a low ranch house.
there might be a wreath in the door, depending on the time of year, and a pride flag and coexist flag hanging together next to the porch. tulips are growing next to bench in the front yard, tulips from amsterdam, door numbers from mexico, flag from spain, bench from england. there's a little world in the front yard of this house. go in, take off your shoes on the front mat, go into the hallway and the first door on the right, a door covered in tape remnants from previous obsessions. open it. run your fingers across the tapestry on the wall, flick on the fairy lights, flip through the polaroids. try to figure out as much as you can about the person who lives in the room, with their fuzzy carpet and messy clothes and mountains of mugs that once held tea. scratch the dog at the end of the bed. feed the injured baby bird on the desk. run your fingers over the map, pins where this person has traveled. a heart around paris, and a picture of a girl attached. an unfinished love letter on the desk, a book to return, a computer open to sims, around five medications grouped together. pick them up, read their labels, and try to figure out the person who lives here. wash her mugs of tea and leave the way you came.