Our homes aren't our homes. They are four walls that contain us, that's all. They hold our things and give us a place to keep out things. They don't have any connection. At the end of the day, whether it's a couch or a bed, or some nights, the floor, it just doesn't matter where we sleep. I can only speak for me, but my home is not here. It's somewhere else, somewhen else. I don't eben know if my home exists. The only home I've ever known was wooden floors on the top of a hill in a house that didn't belong in any set time. We walked there, stumbled, really, until we fell asleep on the front lawn. And when when we woke up, we saw that the walls were just a facade and that the back was peeling and falling and crumbling. But there are no rules of construction, or, well, reality in the place where I sleep. There's giant swings in the front yard and pirate ships in the tree and I never have trouble sleeping.

Photo - N
Words - S