Back in the parental home for one night, before visiting grandparents tomorrow. Every time I come back here, something else has changed -- there's a patio where the scrubby tree and the anomalous fritillary were; the old fire has been replaced with a neat black stove; the TV is on a modern glass corner-table instead of strange 80s built-in units; there's a shiny double bed in what was my room -- and still is my room, in parts, but with fewer and fewer of my things each time I come and go. And every time I come back, I'm a little bit different, too; thinking different things, having been to different places, knowing things I didn't know before. (Knowing things I wish I'd known then; knowing things I wish I didn't know now.) Each time I walk in and out of this place I wear away the carpet a little bit more, and one day they'll get a new carpet, but by the time it has to go, you're ready to see the back of it. Bit by bit the cells of my body will die and be replaced, leaving the dust of dead skin in a layer throughout the house; and bit by bit I'll wear the house away, taking things and leaving things, ebb and flow, flotsam and jetsam, wearing it all away like the water wears the stone.
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