Every day she wakes to build a new house, the same house. She starts with mud, slaps it into terracotta, and then makes a roof of moss. Puts a plant in the corner, taken from the forest path. She makes spaghetti for lunch, eating with a fork branch. For tea and biscuits in the afternoon, a little company of mice comes in to tidy up the cobwebs that have already formed in the corners. The mice nibble on crumbs under the table. As the day goes on, the clay walls grow soft and her body grows cold. By nightfall, her hair has turned a moldy green; by the moonlit midnight, she lies on the earth covered in fuzz, and insects swarm her mouth.
Every day she wakes to build a new house, the same house.