Urges come and go, (too easily sometimes it seems). To throw things, tables and chairs, to yell. to spit the venom that comes to the surface and leaks through my stare. Like the underground stream that runs under my house, it's a structural problem, you cannot stop the water from seeping up and flowing through that mysterious pipe, when it rains, it will always flood. I want to pretend that water table is a subject of fiction, that I cannot possibly be always standing on water, that water only exists in lakes, rivers, and oceans. My foundation will always become waterlogged. With every rain, the level will rise and my feet will stand in cold water that leaves my skin the color of rust. Over a lifetime a house made of timber will surely rot and sooner or later, walls will crumble.
