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I don't expect a response from you and I won't try to elicit one, I
stroke your walls as I prowl along, they seem to be so strong, your
windows are on their own, they are letting in a steady blow, I can hear
the wings of the locust, but it doesn't seem to matter much. I don't
trust your corridors, why do I hear the timber groan? I'm getting
closer, hitting rooms no light has shown, I like the fixtures, I adore
the woodwork, I lay prone, making out faces in the plaster, my fingers
probing the molding for a trigger. Volumes of polaroids, commemorate
nothing to speak of, to speak of, there are whole sections of this house
not on the floor plan, and I will ransack 'til I find myself an entry.
You can't afford to let me go on searching for a motive, you've got to
assure me, don't allow me to doubt, produce the passkey satisfy my
suspicions, will you trick me to co-author your plans, elaborate plans.
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