The furious disassembly of a thermostat never spoke to me of artistic merit, only the failures of a thermostat, though I would later mount its parts on canvas. Circumstance leads us to little more than confusion, while everything that is left unspoken we found in a bundle on the stoop, perfectly explicit.

The weeks passed by quickly; those who I'd been accustomed to had already left for winter. The walls were repainted a cold blue and stripped of decor. Dozens of metal pieces on the thermostat appeared to have not any purpose. I tore it apart. A ball bearing slipped and traced the creases of my clothes to the ground. I heard it click on the debris, slipped into the river of floorboards. The twisted strands of metal spelled out letters of contempt. I have built this home of tall grass so that I may sleep above the deserts, so to hide my children in the walls for safety.

The snow infiltrates as we sleep with the smallest cracking sounds atop the roof. I hear the wind whistling through the opening in the skylight. I stand and the blankets fall softly on her, I have found a violin in the cellar, I say, so I will write you the works of Van Gogh. A brilliant undertaking, they will say - I never had aspired to anything more. On her bed of willow she lies, the curtains hang in shreds. I sit with my head to the window. There is a glimmer of light off the porch. The gears have their pilgrimage through ether.