white2fire

I want to be the home of whispers, the house of dripping water and blooming plants, the shelter of childish drawings and books with broken spines; I want to hear the gossiping mothers tell their gossiping daughters how my home is full of fresh air and the feeling of watching a sunrise in a new country. The windows would all be open, gauzy and bright curtains billowing in the breeze the high rise would always have, and no door would have a lock and some doorways would have no door; music would drift to the pavement below and everyone would hear the crooning voices of men with diamonds for teeth and the plucked strings of instruments that