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| eh? |
This house is old; it has been thirty-six
years since I stood in this room.
I don’t remember there ever having been a
party here. Though surely there was.
The main room is empty except for people
drinking, dancing talking.
If you climb the stairs you will leave the
party behind. Though a friend, Tim, will follow you.
As you climb higher the rooms become
smaller.
The stirs become older.
And the house becomes more intimate.
The stairs are old too.
Victorian, covered in chipped cream gloss
paint.
They are smooth to the touch, easy to the
eye.
The rooms are full of old armchairs, heavy
with cushions.
The beds are loaded with eiderdowns.
In each room the party is further away and
the number of people standing and talking less.
But still your friend follows.
Until you reach the top of the house, a
landing after a landing after a landing.
You are in the attic.
There is only room for the bed and the
armchair.
Yourself.
And your friend.
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