There’s a perfect house with a crack in the ceiling.
In the night, a servant diligently collects dead hares from the fields. By the morning there isn’t a single corpse left in the grass. The rich suffer no consequence for the trail of bodies in their wake.
There are brave boys who climb in through windows, who are only allowed to love in the night. When they touch, the strings shriek in horror. The orchestra recoils in fear of rejection, of violence, of vulnerability.
Your ex-lover turns tail on the cricket pitch and runs back to the safety of his stumps, to his marriage, to the shackles of his estate and title. He stops dreaming.
When the cracks widen and the water comes through the ceiling, it pools in the pianoforte he first fell in love over. He tuts at the nuisance, and turns his back. You move the piano with another man, and fall in love again.
What is more godly than the love of another? Surely you can hear the choir, too?
Unlock that most secret place, deep in the forest, and let someone else inside.
