Home Invasion
And as I sit here at my old mahogany desk writing to you my innermost thoughts and musings while the acrid stench of smoke seeps from underneath the cracked door of this room that resides at the highest tower of my crumbing mind palace, I hear their battering rams go bang-bang against the main entrance in echoing reverberations that rattle and confuse whatever dreams that remain within. It is too late now, folks, it is far too late to save what is there to be saved. That is, if what is there to be saved wants to be saved in the first place. These things, you see, they scurry away, here and there. They scurry into cracks that should not be there. Twenty-seven years, but the structure is already falling to pieces. They just do not build them like they used to, or so they tell me. It is a home invasion, you see, but I am not so sure who is trespassing. Whoever it is, they should know this is still my house, and I can s-still do what I please. I wonder though, who is knocking, and how did we get here.
