Le moulin.

Grins as polished as the linoleum on the floor, sweaters purchased by mothers as Christmas presents, they eat dinner promptly at six in the evening.

What have you to gripe about, you animals, prancing across grounds with shiny feet, rolling dice on clean tables? Is perfection, to you, not so perfect?

White, sheltered suburbia sings you songs of home. My ears bleed.

I tread lightly, silently, through mowed lawns, through waxed cars, through hardwood houses, careful not to leave footprints in the folds of your brain, to track dirt in the foyer.

The winter wind doesn’t stay in trees for too long.

Round pegs, square holes.

I’m coated in dust, and you have no vacant rooms.