A globule full of hot air, which bends a little. Almost resists when I step into it, one room at a time. May be, I ran a little too fast, the rooms did not get time enough for my welcome. May be.

May be, they are still a little angry with me. A two inch wall between me and the walls. I can touch them, yet can't. A part I owned a few months back. Something has retreated back into some deep abyss my hands can't reach.

The walls are saying, be my guest, but don't suggest colours for me. Every action seems like a preparation to go back, to go away. Have enough, before you go. Pack this, before you go. Coming is like a long preparation for going.

Flitting like a housefly.