We make this extended home ,immensely compressed space,a light rolled in endless carpet ,a shadow infinitely multiplied,the poetics of our home space.
Dust atoms descend a skylight, in tiny suns creating our home space,expanding eyes everywhere,corners puffing like dream cats that self-destruct behind doors.
Doors are brooms to sweep light off its shadows and shadows fall in abyss of light from a balcony to come back for ripe apple sun,to live a world by and die by moon.
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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