Heat. Fans spinning. I breathe in.
The air matches my temperature.
There is no sense of separateness.
I feel the pulse of the house.
We are one contiguous system.
Sawdust stirs on the window ledge
matching the grit in my fingernails.
A roaring hunger.
Stiff whiskers search the corners.
A ridged oesophagus arches.
Paper lungs inhale sawdust and fur.
Clattering retreat. Quiet. Holding a breath,
Standing in darkness again.
Fans spinning.