i feel asleep although i'm sure i'm awake
my hands are these big pale spiders with minds of their own mottled with scars and moving muscles beneath them... they happily tap at the blackened keyboard and blue veins beneath stretched cold skin continue to pulse with life...

i like seeing houses filled with memories... houses with cabinets full of smiling creatures caught in porcelain shapes or faces in glass sheaths grinning in past eras, happiness crammed into a single memory with no recollection of the monotony before and after such events.
i like carpets with confusing patterns and flowers and walls that reach the sky in never ending shapes and squiggles, cushions with garish plants, rugs with faded blocks of colour, tables with glass surfaces underneath films of dust and piles of papers on every surface...
it makes me feel safe to see every article of someone's life with them at all times... home isn't where the heart is, it's where your life is condensed into a small area where everything that means anything is there with you, guiding you along, recalling your time on this earth for you.
postcards with well wishses from past adventures
books that have numerous creases in the spines
toys with frayed stitching and unstable plastic eyes

i'm a sentimentalist when it comes to possessions
they are constant and tangible, they don't move or breathe
they are always there, they don't cry or leave...