the rest is confetti;

“We’re always contradicting ourselves. We want people to tell us apart, yet we don’t want them to be able to. We want people to get to know us but we also want them to keep their distance. We’ve always longed for someone to accept us but we never believed there’d be anyone who would accept our twisted ways. That’s why we’ll stay locked up tight…in our own little private world and throw away the key, so no one can ever hurt us.”

“Have you ever seen a picture of yourself, taken when you didn’t know you were being photographed, from an angle that you don’t usually see when you look in a mirror, and you think, ‘That’s me… that’s also me.’ Do you know what I’m talking about?”

I THOUGHT FOR SO LONG THAT TIME WAS LIKE A LINE, THAT THAT OUR MOMENTS WERE LAID OUT LIKE DOMINOES, AND THAT THEY FELL, ONE INTO ANOTHER AND ON IT WENT, JUST DAYS TIPPING, ONE INTO THE NEXT, INTO THE NEXT, IN A LONG LINE BETWEEN THE BEGINNING AND THE END. BUT I WAS WRONG. IT’S NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL. OUR MOMENTS FALL AROUND US LIKE RAIN. OR SNOW. OR CONFETTI.

mott manor. its walls provide a sanctuary for the perverse, and by simply walking by one can feel the change of the atmosphere. centuries of envy, greed, pride and rot all accumulating on the grounds, within the rooms and the vast outcroppings of the plantation. recalling sleepless nights and restless days. each one winding down where anger, sadness, grief, and mourning get bottled up and painted upon the walls, tucked within armoires, and slowly but surely the house absorbs every emotion. they become the house; the house becomes them. it is a haven for nastiness and grit. lingering. watching. waiting. decaying.