Homes

Empty houses are the best ones, or the ones built to resemble houses but filled with trains instead, or quaking puddings, or irate tortoiseshell cats, you don't know, do you, unless there's a peep hole for peeping inside.  Also good are the houses that are too small to inhabit and filled with paste hams and forks with two tines or the ones that are too large and full of the dead.  Also acceptable are those houses full of gloomth, locked doors, innuendos, taffeta, slow lakes and rattlings as well as the houses built in rib cages and filled with breath and dust and very soft couches of human flesh.  Intriguing are those houses that are composed of nothing at all but are only spaces defined around a place where a house might exist or might be formed by the dueling reflection of mirrors of mirrors of mirrors, or merely someone sighing on the lintel, at last, at last, at last.  In short an inhabitable house is best, more refined and elegant, just as fripperies are better uncosseted, marzipan uneaten, depths unplumbed.