"This house is old enough for all of our mothers party's," John agrees enthusiastically, it's like he's suddenly a ticket to a holiday box that's filled with slander, audacity and many shades of pink. He's poking inside of a brown box that's sitting in the front room where the wood paneling seems to hold the windows just enough, but somehow they still manage to slip around. Then he announces to no one at all, "it's an old place!" The sofa's stained enough to match it's broken state, where it's arms were once pious, the center now sags brazenly and there's a suggestive sense of elopement or worse that's creeping over what remains. All of the walls have been tanked with drawings and incidental paintings are on every other kind of surface around the room. There's even bits of curling paper that are hanging from filament that's strung from muslin hanging overhead, like it's the ceiling's second skin...