The inside of this house was created by the door, the door by the need to escape. The windows pulse with darkness. For this reason we measure our latitude for the accommodation of moonlight.
An island’s darkness. A child’s.
The ocean slowly leaping at the stars, the window wet with the birth of it, desire pulsing in the experienced muscles of the newly aged.
Bloodstones cobbled across the street of dreams, private police horses jittery in their interior streetlight.
What crimes have we considered?
Fell out of the darkness. Into the night.
It’s the daylight alones us.
The house we live in created to resist, to wait.
Two doors because we want to be able to make a mistake.
If we leave, we want the darkness closed, the night open. If we stay, we want the window clear, the house historical, doors locked from both sides.
Walking out on ourselves, we miss the person we used to live in, the house of our former occupation. It’s a long way to the beginning. When the mooneggs crack beneath our feet, it’s the last journey.
The way out the way in.
The question its own answer.