In the House of Crumbles

In the house of crumbles, I tapped at my computer. All the gilt had peeled off the walls, leaving the frescoes looking guilty at their naked partners across the room. Not that I noticed, engaged as I was in this ancient piece of machinery. I barely noticed when a sheet of plaster dropped from the ceiling and shattered on the floor mere inches from my shoulder. I tapped. And tapped. Eventually the lights went out. Eventually a pipe burst. Eventually the water slowed, dried and the pipe rotted away. When my chair collapsed, I sat on the floor. When the floor caved in, I held the monitor tightly and tapped, tapped, tapped. Eventually, the vines came. Then the bugs. Then the beasts. The house of crumbles was neither house nor crumbled. And still, I sat and tapped. When my computer was nothing but dust, I looked up at the heavens and read the stars. I’m there still, if you can find me. Staring and reading about you.