Hardpacked by the interstate thrum, where the windsped litterwrappers breeze without content upon the porchscape as sleeps a grey raghound. Swampbrown lawn, withered in the summernescence of a scorch eternal, no glint on the girl's bicycle, its rust the color of the funeral man. Up the foyer now, floorcarpetting of no discerned color nor pattern save galley slop. Into now then a sunken living room of webs and spidershuffle, where hangs a portrait of a woman with a scar upon her cheekvisage low above the mantlerot. The fireplace, chalky cold, a whoreharlot on her deathbed, no regrets, no reason to persist. Step faster to the dining room, a chandelier of Damacles crowns a table and four wood chairs where no man gets closer to the truth than the sword. Irregular drip from the kitchen faucet echoes in the scuttering mousecabinetry. Further now, encounter a small room shying the kitchen, the crapjohn. A candle and match in dust, relic from a time when considerations were expected.
Ascend the creaksteps to four bedrooms, each the same size and shape, never changing, it only those who threshold them what change. Forthwith to the hall bathroom, the tub's iron claws weigh upon the greentile like a mounting soulburden. Chance now the owner's suite, with a closet into which a man can trudge, where hangs the costumes of life's occasions, both joyhappy and deathnear. Descend deeply into a basement unfinished and where behind a pondgreen door sags a workbench and Oldowan toolkit. Through the milky subterranean window, see the beflaked automobile terminus, mold-ridden and sinewy, half-leaning against the sidefence, bracing. The yard -- overgrown grasses and unpredictable thicket where the forsaken varmint puddles in solace. New Pella windows. Award-winning schools. Shopping nearby.