A handful of words rise from the earth. One should not pick them up or tousle them. This fixture has too many holes in it. I do not know how to recognize a description. The fuse-box conceals a decayed diagram of our house, taped to the door. The linear hiss of almost-silence. There are just too many seams to invert, like wild fractions or linguistic prohibitions. A scrap of paper is opening its mouth and I can see your insulation. When I am just about to understand something touching our history, the lights flicker and I lose my balance. Creatures we do not mention come closer. I abandon this memory and climb the precarious staircase.