Even a wall in all its stiffness and solidity, unlikely to become a journey- does.

I feel fake, when driven to dive, always fake. Constrained by the ‘genuine’ reality of my surroundings. My breaths capacity only takes me as far as my ambitions stretch. Stopping there I rediscover my desires and sweating cold I make up a description presently without slippage:

I would like to write about this house, presently without the slippage, in the same way that I would like to write a story about you. I write to you, about how much I love you and how much I would want to be you for me.

Even if you are dense all around me, I can’t always see you, I want you here, but the walls disappear and only the distances between them remain. Your face is a voice, growing in absence sheds away silently. I am forgetting you. But I will put your description down once and for all.

You are a bigger then me. I feel you always through the shadow you cast, or in the fake halo the moonlight brings. I can only admire you as I admire the faint silhouette of my window circling across my room constantly disappearing through the night.

Drowsily I say I love you and my body opens to the pulsating flesh of dawn.

For breakfast I dream up a love confession alone:

I protect you and I tell you: you are a whole. You can feel my edge and I can see its there. I am a dense substance of rhythm and there is within me a well through which you drink your lust and desire to live. I say I for you.

A ripe fruit is torn apart by weight and accident.

A toxic cramp in my lower belly drags me out of my head into this destructive reality I want you to imagine for me. I do not like it. The pain stands firmly in the way of the moment of me and my intellect that helps me make a word and take it out. I am full of pollution, like a slit in the bed of rock accumulating. And I have no protection.

I dream up a world of houses alone. An aerial view of facades and hints of corners, places to hide and places to store large or heavy objects. Glimpsing through transparent windows I wish for things that I see to appear only through forces of gravity, magnetism and forces invisible to all eyes always. Sometimes surprising in places where we can share ourselves alone.

No, I am writing about the house around. not about myself but what holds and envelops me in this moment. Which are the strikes of the chair pressing on my flesh in combination with my weight. The synthetic carpet, that does not heat up but keeps my feet amused by texture and comforted by its plastic glow.

A drying rack,

a coffee.

Some geometry implying always you will put it away. If you are not always drying and smelling the freshened cotton now slowly passing by my nose.

There are drying racks put away, layered grids of forgotten labor. Or emergency kits for rhythmic anomalies amongst house members. The day when all need to clean and dry. Days when we are becoming just about naked, while smelly garments fall invisibly off our bodies. Grids, more grids, and verticals protecting wet walls, holding ghosts of household chores, folded awkwardly under hanging aprons and flour falling, dusting the gritty edge of the fence that now protect me from mindlessly falling into the adjacent long, tall, warm, square hole.

An opening in the middle of the building, 6 squares meters on every floor to accommodate an outside for two apartments. Beautiful attention that spaces 'lost' give to use.

The space seems purgatorial. That is why I found comfort in it. But still I have not placed it. I did not say There is a barred door leading onto a small balcony on which I sit and write. I did not mention the round window intersecting the rail. Its reflective coating not allowing me to see inside, but yet it peaks onto my balcony. I did not mention the two rusty hook hanging by the rail, holding a washing line. an old string with scuffed fiber. Waiting with a view on someone bathroom sounding a fan that extracts its all too human smells.

Describing seems hard for me, details pull me away in trying to make something more of them, or to look for their cause, or age or character. How can I be realistic, how can I see in things just as they are a speckled concrete a harsh filled crack running to floors up, a small ledge on an erect surface

I want to talk about the courtyard, but I am scared there are too little of too many things there. Just like in my work. Too little too many, not excessive enough but reach inn gateways that might not be for me. I remember now the courtyard. I see it through the window above the kitchen counter. An array of private entrances, windows, plants, a person cleaning and singing and somebody yelling and complaining, A garden, maybe two. Separated gardens that look whole. Floors, and pathways of many people, on their way home.