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A kaleidoscope of dreams plays on the window.
Overhead, the sky rumbles with a purple fury.
Hands strain against makeshift bars of bamboo, held back by strips of bark.
Sounds all pile upon each other in a writhing swarm.
Shadows chase each other across the cracks on the wall.
Paint blooms in quiet little bouquets, occasionally bursting forth with the powdery foam of want and need.
Every time someone shuts the door, the ceiling bestows little showers of blessings.
Water sneaks in to hide in cosy, dry corners, leaving wet footprints behind.
The box buzzes and crackles with its ghostly little people.
The stove hums merrily, putting out tendrils of inviting smells and welcoming sizzles.
A table screeches and scuttles around on four short legs.
A recumbent head lets out a low sigh, like a long drawn whistle.
Doors slam, children bawl, myriads of lives play out in a panorama of little rectangles of light.
A siren blows, a kettle shrieks, claws skid against a cold floor.
The house waits with the patient, wordless wait of an ascetic.
The house waits for you to make it a home again.