The brain, the manifestation of the self and being, cannot be contained to a single room. A house can still curse and spit once its printer has been removed, ink tossed to the gutter. A house’s foundations can still spread and grow even when the computer's cord is cut. A house can dread and mourn while its rooms remain locked from their veins. I can only guess what purpose the office serves, but it would be unwise to compare my own biology. I feel no regret in lobotomizing my house, coaching its jumbled pieces into beige boxes. I pile them up with the rest in the living room, the heart of the house, nestled deep between hallways, which is now overrun with crumpled luggage and veiled furniture. Everything has been packed except for my bed. The moving man won't arrive till tomorrow, and I’d rather sleep in my room than risk the floor. Evening approaches, and I find myself with the disquieting notion that these will be my last moments in this house. For seven years it allowed me to live in safety. Inside this hospitable ecosystem of concrete and steel, I have never feared the elements. I was expected to be a temporary inhabitant, but my mere presence turned into a cataclysmic force. This house, like a delicate cave painting, had dissolved from the carbon in the tourist’s breath. Our breath. The walls, once a glistening white, now take to the dried and still look of a cadaver. Dust gathers in the sockets and pores of the carpet. A cyst of indoor mold grows near the corner of a doorway, multiplying, multiplying. Cancer. The thought crosses my mind: I have gutted this body, gathered up all the desirable parts, and packaged it for a transplant. The house howls in agreement. I reflexively retort. A house does not need furniture. It does not need electricity or running water or heating. A house can live without organs. A house can live without people. The sun has set, yet still, I stare at these walls. A house can do that to you, steal time, make you see things that aren't there. It can open the curtains while you sleep and unlock the doors when you're away. A house can hate you. Despise you. It can feel fear; fear that you've left it with a hollow, useless shell. Yet despite this crippling disdain, a house must still stand proud. It’s been built to do so. Even when the excavators come to snap its roots. I stumble down the hall, past the office, the windows, and the deep rooms beyond that. Down a flight of stairs, a lonely mattress rests against the side of an expansive room. Carpet dents mark the spots where furniture used to sit. Tack holes for posters. I never quite knew what function the bedroom served in a house's anatomy. Stomachs digest food, and veins link bones, but the bedroom serves only to provide a place of refuge for germs and poxes. Perhaps it's an organ that humans have not yet grown. I slip into bed to rest my woes, but sleep PLAINS 46 paradox