Unknown flowers in a vase in a house on the latest rented windowsill. A visit to the florist once a week might make all the difference. Could mean, if you’re lucky, saying bye bye to the rising damp. Could mean aiding the return of ancient memories, inevitably leading back to the kitchen counter, slicing up garlic and chilli, the fog looking in every window. Here, the thin vein of humanity just got thinner. You no longer want to keep loitering in fascinated oblivion. Moisture marks the glass. Recipes for success dot the old carpeted floor, some bearing the footprints of tiny boots with spikes. Still, though, no seeds in sight.

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