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The house was raised without direct

        architectural intent, seemingly erected

                overnight but well-constructed, "measured to


the standard of the times," or so 

        the experts said. The only problem 

                was the standard of the modern times


was low, the experts self-proclaimed,

      so when the chaos roared one afternoon

                the over-bloated pimple he had called    


a home was splattered round the yard 

        like existential mirror puss. Soaking wet

                and terrified he cowered as what once 


had been his certainties came crumbling

        down around his feet, till just some siding

                and the brick exterior were all remaining of


his pre-existing order—‘so really what was left

        but just to wipe my eyes and start to reinforce 

                what proved itself,' he recollects it now, ‘to torch


the rest and get to building once again?

        A man's a fool to settle in a house that can’t 

                resist the wind.’ The neighbors say that he's been


reconstructing ever since, diligently studying

        the engineering manuscripts, but mostly dreaming

                of a place where, as he articulates, it never rains.

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