Back in the day, we'd be THAT house.

You know, the one (in archaic fantastical suburbia) that was dishevelled, neglected, and inside, cluttered and filthy.

Well, we would, if half of our street didn't wasn't government housing or maybe inhabited by witches that eat children (but no Choco's that's why there are so many; god I'm racist.)

This is a house falling into utter disarray. It's been a steady slope. Things were abandoned to make time to care for her, maybe, but mostly to sit around in the silences and turn things over in our heads. Now, whatever semblance of routine, order and cleanliness is deteriorating rapidly.

The sink is full. The bathrooms need to be cleaned. The floor is dirty. There is dust and grime and stains and crumbs and we're a house collapsing in on itself.

There are neglected repairs, evidence of pure sloth, and many innovations to come of it. We dread visitors, for fear of scrutiny and/or pity. We refuse help, and we've yet to call the cleaner.

We take our lives on haphazardly placed dish at a time in a slovenly living space, but that's okay. No one is really living here.