Somewhere along a short street, shorty finds the house. It's made from cottage brick and it's sitting on an acre that was cut from wiry timber. The night's so slurred with the conceit of being both wet and vagabond. No one around here likes this street. If anyone can, they stay away. They're making faces and eating popcorn for dinner tonight. If there's any consensus among them; it's that hanging up paintings while laughing about the absurdity of Benjamin's camera is much better than living on this street. We're staying dry and joking about math and what it's good for. But we should be deciding who is getting the room with the painting in it. On this day that's getting off into the night, our truck of things has left and our bikes are still in Garden Point. So here we are, stuck inside of this problem with no subtle solutions and worrying about our socks getting wet while eating cold pizza on the rug. Until we recognize there's no more table