The back of the room is a home. So, too, is outside the window. Pick up and settle down where there is something like the smell of smoke.
He wakes and it’s disappeared, each time. So he picks up and moves on. There is no peeling away, just two bags and several slow steps. Move your feet, old man. Move your feet.
Once, nearly everywhere would be enough. But there are barriers now—laws and signs. Seek the sadder places and build the chances, but that isn’t the memory. The way it comes is pure and with no perfume of dim red lights and glass. Walk on, then, with only air as guide.
Each home evoked, not built. What the world provides the old man follows; a spark, a burn, a breath, four walls. With every wind, though, a demolition.
Light them, then. Light them and it’ll stay.