And with these walls we will never need the sun. These knots are eyes and 

every stain's an effigy. To never be shown in the open world. These walls 

have no voice, they only rot. And every faded smear's an epitaph. They were 

loving once, only to be killed and rebuilt by human hands. And made mildew 

with memories. But the grain makes shapes. Oh so clearly. And we can see it. 

With the faces of our history. The only things that are truly ours are 

enclosures with locked doors. These walls are just like bars and words. 

Constructs to be worshipped as such. Our house. And with these walls we will 

never need the sun, or time. They are too sublime.