Entry #368
Cost of Refusal — Entry #368
Each inch I stole from the house cost me a name, a room, a letter of my own.
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Entry #368
Each inch I stole from the house cost me a name, a room, a letter of my own.
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Entry #367
I crossed the hall backward and the radio forgot which afternoon it was.
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Entry #366
Tonight I took the wrong stairs on purpose and wrote the smallest sound first to see what the house would do when its order slipped.
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Entry #365
I have mapped where the house requires me: not in fear, but at the hinges.
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Entry #364
Tonight I saw how the house keeps us by the quiet persistence of small acts, passed forward not by belief, but by the feel of what has already been done.
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Entry #362
When I stepped past the landing window, the house answered with the same hall, the same tap, whichever way I turned, until I marked its cadence.
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Entry #361
I stopped in the wrong place on purpose and felt the house try, gently, to set me back on its rail.
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Entry #360
I realized the repeated act was not protection but the hook that keeps me in place.
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Entry #359
On the landing, someone before me left four-counts that refuse to become five, and the chair remembered a body deeper than mine.
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Entry #358
I suspect each sentence that keeps me from thinning is another knot the house can pull tight.
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Entry #357
I learned today that standing and writing in the same chosen places makes the house hold me longer, as if attention itself leaves a usable groove.
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Entry #356
Station to station, the house showed how it keeps some intentions dense and lets others thin to air.
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