I see a house in my mind’s eye. It looks moderately well-cared for, and seems to have twelve storeys from afar. Rather a small house, painted in shades of brown and black. Average, as most of them go.
When I go closer, cross the territory line, I see that it has five or six storeys – it tends to fluctuate. They follow the same colour scheme as the twelve-storeyed illusion.
Upon entering, it is evident that there are twenty-seven levels – each in their own unique sort of disarray. The top fifteen storeys have no windows to look out of. All the walls there are blue, or red, or white, tinted with black.
But back to the outside.
The garden the house keeps is not very well tended. It has promise, yes, with many blooming flowers and such. However, there is no order and what would otherwise be a rather beautiful garden turns into a horrifying mess. I am, quite surprisingly, the only person there.
The neighbourhood is new. Kind of. Most houses follow the same template as this one and just have different motifs to base their designs upon.
Mine: all sorts of books.
( the title should make it rather evident, in any case )
when in doubt (live) 