Each room is a miniature for some larger doll house.
All pleasure.
Every room is devoid of air—just objects—not lived, but performed. Used.
Every appliance does a thing when used.
The heater turns on, the stove turns on, the coffee grinder turns on, the faucet
turns on. Sensations—nothing special about that.
It is as if the power were to go off, she too would be halted.
The singular track connecting each room suddenly there.
Kitchen stuff. Bathroom stuff. Bedroom stuff. Living room stuff.
The hallway—nothing happens there except her.
She happens to walk.
Oh yes, that is a possibility. The couch—she happens upon one afternoon.
To sit.
No joy because a potential too mighty for a small purpose: which is to relax.
. . .
That is a possibility.
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