house has no idea where his mug went. he was holding it. he was holding it and now it's on the floor. the contents splattered against the soft wood panels like a cafe massacre. his eyes were red and blue; red and blue and white and black. his hands are shivering like ice and snow shaken off by a woolen hand on a jacket sleeve. he's in trouble. danger. his parents are like some sort of deity to him. he has no parents, even though his feelings are still stressing towards the possibility. he used to breathe dead grass and winter pond water. he would cascade his lungs in post-mort and old port. he was a bathtub of murky, cold water. he would open the drain and there would still be a disgusting ring around him. wilson was the old roads, and house would cover him in cigarette butts and unforgiving track marks. house was.