there is always a basement filled with people. they look familiar from behind but never up close. up close they look like people you don’t know even though you know them.
there is always a faceless head wobbling on the stairs. it twists itself to indicate it’s watching. there is always a basement.
a cinderblock wall leaks paint onto the floor. a cigarette burns a hole through the coffee table. sometimes there is music but it is never completely there.
there is always someone in the kitchen blabbering to no one. this time she tells you to peel her open and squeeze her tight. no one wants pulp in his juice.
there is always a basement and sometimes a rug. this time there is a rug and it is dry and stiff. part of it looks like it is reaching and another part looks afraid.
this time you let your knees buckle and your body flatten. just you and the rug and the dusty chandelier this time. it billows like a mushroom cloud from the floor of the ceiling.