I remember this place used to seem alien and foreign to me. I used to be terrified to fall asleep here. Now I've lived here and found that it not really so bad. This house is ancient by todays standards. Older than me. I ask it questions, wanting to glean some of it's aged wisdom for myself. It remains silent. It opresses me, bearing down and trying to contain my on all sides. The house is cold.

I pack quickly, ready to leave as soon as is possible. I remember bringing a girlfriend out here, three thousand miles from a home where I no longer live. I stand in the room where we slept. The room has changed much, but her ghost is still here with me, sleeping. When I slept in this room I would dream of her, old remnants of my half-forgotten youth. I changed rooms but that didn't help. It wasn't the room. Sometimes, I wish my life were already planned out for me, and all written up into a script, so I could just act it out. That way when I said or did the wrong thing, I could point to the script and say "See! It may be the wrong thing, but it's what's in the script!" I've wasted so much time by simply not knowing what to say. What to say to this house? Or is it even listening? When I'm dead this house will still stand here against the elements, uncaring. This house doesn't have to listen to anybody.