Shaking so furiously I can hear the hum from here. We've been paled and painted and opened, made to hold some other form. Surrounded all along the horizon, fitted into some one else's pulses, observed in hidden corners by unborn spirits. Fool the soul. Sounds of machinery come up from the ground, from a place you cannot find a center for. Your home holds a secondary magnetism coming from a space in the sky where gravity pools and drains. The people you call hum loudly, amplified by devices held to the throat, wishing to erase your voice from their memory by covering your speech with gray noise. The horizon tightens. When you wake, after your handful of sleep, your eyes always face to the north, the north only your house knows.

the exit is hidden within the exit