The half-life – existing in Ordinary Street.  In a home that’s regressing, decaying at your own apprehensive feet. The curtains, undrawn, mournful in unique shades of burnt. I continuously prolong to stand; outside, be curious, where nothing can be learnt.

All that remains is allergic and weathered, bleached by an encompassing light, a colourless nothing fading from every passers sight. The welcome gate has long since gone, dissolved by powers of apathy, crumbling everything, no longer strong.

Carried on a gust, is a child’s drawing of their favourite haunted house, daring you to walk up the path like that famous miming mouse.  Someone is sealed inside their novelty box. Merely do they exist, inert, in one of their cellblocks.

This was this once the warmest family home. Mum and dad, the kids, each sitting on their styled floral throne, around the television like decent and normal folk, laughing like gas leaks at dad’s latest bad joke.

If you care too much now, then you are very strange. You can’t spare the spare time and so creeps something random, unimportant, and you’ll be fine, so walk on regardless in your very British sunshine.