I was home, but I wasn’t. Walking around a town looking for someone familiar, hoping for someone to come. In a small cafe, the sign like a Swedish Village – black wood outlined in snow.
I met up with an old friend. We searched for her partner in love in a run-down house he owned. He appeared on a bed of cloth on the floor, he appeared as a squatter. We felt like he had done this before – discovered a gutted house, full of shredded beds, skeleton walls, wooden beams and lived there until he completed his task or was discovered. Decay, fuzzy, rotted wood. One of us wandered into an empty room, the floors bowed under her weight. How could someone live in such bare bones? With so much to fix inside? And he showed us around the rooms. Took pride in the awkward turns of the stairs, the insulation ratted on the floor. What I felt was he wasn’t good enough – not for her.

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