(no subject)
cloves in the cold, people spilling from the house, bursting on seams, the floor creaking and threatening to bear its load down to the basement. old faces, long since seen and fondly remembered all around. the stars so bright they burn in the black, the places still seen with eyes closed. the people make the place, if not, it would spit us all out. we create family out of disparate groups, yet shaped as one. we must love each other, or we will die.