Margins

Synopsis

The houses have their lost keys, as we slowly pause for a season that will no longer endure. We allow it to fall like clouds from a desolate hill. The houses have their hidden keys, like the air that we don't see, clothes throbbing as witnesses in a cemetery. This city holds no longer a phase as it became the body, and we became the questions: Who are they? Where do you observe them wandering? Did their homes leave them behind on their farms and unearth themselves into these margins? how did these houses deposit a mountain that does not like humans, then carved holes through its bodies from the remains of trees? The houses leave themselves, as the inhabitants neglect their being. In their journals, in post offices, telephones, courts, and records. They spread their hopes and their disappointments. Gathering now under the bridge as they come back, as I fool my umbra within two walls.