Trespassing.

I saw old houses on our drive home from Charlotte yesterday. I wrote this:

I feel like exploring a big, empty old house. The old fireplaces that still hold ashes. Evidence of squatters (empty baked bean cans and an empty box of matches). Light fixtures and naked bulbs swinging. Creaking, cracking stairs. White sheets over strange shapes. Peeling paint and wallpaper. Strange little rooms. Crumpled paper. Rusty jacks and worn-down bears. A moth-eaten bridal veil. Candle wax on tables. Wavy windows. Dust a half-inch thick. A child's button-up shoe. Mice in every corner, too bold to hide and too stupid to fear me. Fear like a swallowed golf ball in my throat, my hand slick around a small flashlight.