In the house of the past we can find grandfather clocks and mothballed overcoats. In the house of the past we find our toys and trinkets, our long-dashed hopes and the shining ideas which light up those dim rooms.
In the house of the past we find our torture and our torment, our tears and trials. In the house of the past we can find the bedroom where we first breathed air and wailed, wailed, wailed.
In the house of the past we can find the lost footsteps and the burned bridges, the place of our feeding and fads, our fondness and fending.
In the house of the future we can find our technological souls soaring in spirit worlds of hope and wish.
In the house of the future we find nothing and everything and alchemy and almost. In the house of the future we find the void and the vapour the vanishing vanish.
In the house of the present we peep out the windows with our secret binoculars trained forever on the house of dreams, across the street of time.
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