indestructible quality of the house. We knew things were made "wonderful, like you and me" and the other things that were unbreakable sides: the land, the fruit, the river, really. But now we have come together into a tailspin. Or the house collapses and we are in yet. We tried to stop the ruin with the force of bodies. But no. Not enough to alleviate the irreducible crack advancing in their walls without remedy, but now - because it's too late - we can stop it. We are alive five bodies surrounded by rubble. Or dead, or the rubble is the flesh and the house does not exist. After losing the final structure of the house we have also lost the notion of truth. The love of small things. The precise movement of the tongue sealing a cigarette. Are irreversibly dead plants on the porch. The water is not clean and the miracle used to be fertile. It is not just another annoyance, the constant repetition of the rain on building materials without form, lots of tile and cement stack without grace in the mud. Scandinavia is a name that no longer exist, that ever uttered, even now we are alone, leaning against the wall, trying to believe that the house there, above us still, that has not fallen yet and that we, the five we are still inside.
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