hard-headed old man

i imagine him, spine bent, spindly fingers, eyes poring wildly over a dusty manuscript.  Wild hair.  Spectacles for sure.

He is as bent as the house he is drawing.  Not with crayons, for he grew up earlier than most of the other children.  He has a No. 2 pencil which he sharpens fastidiously, but only on days the tip is so blunt it’s actually swallowed by a would-be shaving.

The old can be powerful when they have not yet extinguished that creative force spilling itself like ink onto all the pages of our history.

The house he builds will definitely be haunted.  I think it’s a bit sad that the house will contain one old man and one old woman.  I want to talk to them and ask about the confines of their relationship.  Why are they still here?  Did their insides look like the house?  Were they in love?

I am afraid I have grown impatient for answers to questions which are not fully formulated.  I cannot spare a thought for the ghosts living in my house.

It grows quiet here.

My fear.  In the corner.  I hear it breathing.


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