House of clumsy solitude, with and without invisible cats. Time is a very small cup. Rustle of blue knowledge in the attic of reflection and secret animals. We each wear headphones, listening to separate broadcasts from the ocean of noise and narrative. Come together, break to chambers. Pass three humans through the sieve of everything that they never wanted, but had to suffer. Or some of it. Enough to fall into a damp ditch. Wool blankets and gramophones constitute the aftermath. Such is the history of medium-sized emotions, catalogued and sorted by color into drawers. I am not streaming. I am hiding in the walls where we try to be something other than robots. The fireplace builds too much smoke. Centripetal assemblage of hobbies and fragrance. I hear your footsteps in my headphones. It makes a bouquet of feedback.