08/09/1932, 12 Brinkley Place
This house is unsettled, now that you’re gone. Its corridors, once stage sets to our stifling dramas, now shiver with dejection. Its walls, once listeners of our wicked quarrels, now echo the same words over like a maddening amplifier. I can only scream with the hope that it will dowse the uproar in my head. I know that this house pines for your return. I believe it feeds on our conflicts. I’m here alone, Noah, and I’m ever so afraid.