http://xuflspp6gvk3uhzkk2oyzgdodftg7wez45w7fwewbgpgua57722ihlyd.onion/poems/i-smile-too.html
Inside the bones of the thing, something shifts, unsettles, waits. If I asked the house, "Why do you dream of collapse when your windows are clean, when your curtains hang with the scent of citrus and sun?" Would it answer? Should it? Would it tell me about the rot in the beams, the weight of a hundred thousand days pressing down, the way the staircase moans at night not from age, but from something... else?