Houses have memories too. They hide them under their windowsills, tuck them in layers of paint and sometimes whisper them to birds passing by. I wonder whose memories these houses will keep. I live here but I am unable to leave a trace. I try to attach myself to the walls, dirty them, mark them… but I fail. They are constantly cleaned, watched, and protected. I caress them instead. And I film them, lest I forget. Home is where the heart is, they say. I disagree. My heart is everywhere. It left with the music. Like a turtle, I am always home.
Fear is an instinct lying under the skin. But what if it mutates?