The House with the Slatted Doors by Montreux Rotholtz

When we left we took all we could carry. In each room there was a young man hung by the throat, though only visible
through a camera, through a telescope, in the middle of the afternoon. The trees by our home are now probably fruitless.
The lintels of the house were sweating, glass in blue spilled chunks fell outwards from every window, we burned our car,
I wrote a warning on the door, I wore my best lace. That summer it didn’t stop raining once. All the trees fell out. The tops
of buildings grew mold and disappeared. They told us we were experiencing something entirely historical. All the trees
fell back. All the tops of the buildings slackened, and grew and appeared as if unmasking themselves, or leaning down
and through to peer at us. The city crept around us like an animal.