The hallways of this house are mapped out like spider veins under the translucent skin on the back of my hand, carefully traveled and absorbed until they form a well-worn path burrowed deep in the back of my mind. I could stride through the building on a black night as easily as on a bright day, turning every sharp corner, winding through every hidden staircase and inopportune doorway with unconscious confidence borne of time and practice. The creaking, settling rhythm of the house thrums in time with the steady beating of my heart, no matter my thoughts and fears, the house is unchanging and steady; not a comfort, but a constant, an easy zen river. For as much as any place can be, it is mine.
