The house is a factory.
Status in itself is criminal for those with the means to move, and the means to weave communion between people.
Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the tree calligraphic.
They took my mother's stomach out six months ago.
It's not that our family has no taste, it's just that our family's taste is inconsistent.
(This picture is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. - David Shankbone)
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