the picket fence would never change. it would remain slanted for the seasons gave no gratitude. no misfortune. only the picket fence could guard you from it's possesion. the house. it was nothing more than a thought. and a barricade.

it was loosing it's colour. its fa�ade. its sentience was no longer proded with wonder. it was disgust. it was nothing. sixty-two years of torture. a sunless summer.

come into our home. won't you stay? i know the steak is cold, but it's wrapped in plastic.