in the house, they light tall candles with long matchsticks. they keep no time, though the wicks burn down and tell of slow hours, lining up infantries of tea cups, marching around the room. they play games of merry widow, and steal kisses and dress as flowers and act in plays about young women full of romance bathing in basements filled with water and golden fish. the house is a story they tell themselves before sleep, it builds walls around their hearts to keep the hostile out. they grow in the house so that they become giants, so that they burst at the seams and unsettle the foundation.