Walk into a cobweb room

The cobwebs maintain the longitude and latitude of last year or the previous year in the corners of the walls, and the silent wise men have been kept in permanent silence, and the remains have become transparent, and some have gradually weathered and become the dark silk in the net. And the cobwebs are still patiently stretched, catching visiting insect moths, and the quietest corners of the walls are silent battlefields and cemeteries.

One or more flies hung from the ceiling, and the height saved them, and the height made them hungry and harmless, occasionally swooping down in search of lunch or dinner when the light was dim. They overlook the Nether with discerning compound eyes. In this room, they are the only condescending and overlooking ones. No one knows what they have to observe, unless you can also hang on the side at a high place, and you also have to have compound eyes.

The nails on the wall, one, two, three, the fourth is still a nail, the fifth - hanging clothes? Hanging hats? Hanging umbrellas? Hanging newspapers? Clothes running, hats gone, umbrellas in the rain, newspapers dying in the news of last year or much ago. The nails held fast to their iron promises and reached a deeper tacit understanding with the walls. Before weathering and corrosion, the nails, these iron fingers, never retracted the initial gesture.

A pair of tattered and old leather shoes hid behind the door, the upper of which had grown gray-blue moss, and it opened its mouth as if it was eager to say something, but it could not make a sound. What kind of mud did it trample on? How steep, obscure, narrow, curved has it ever been on? By the light that penetrated through the crack of the door, a few grass buds were born in the shoes, and no one forgot the shoes, and the shoes still held the thought of the earth and the years.

In the middle of the house was a pine table, the legs of which began to decay, one of which had been bent and nearly knelt down—a dignified wooden gesture that was mournful for the plant. The table is involuntarily tilted, allowing people to see the tragic collapse of time, and in the drawer, one contains cases and prescriptions, and the other contains a damp and moldy book, the text is blurred, the broken text tells an incomplete plot, and a book is well preserved, still humbly hidden in a certain page, suggesting to the time when it is not read.

Only then did I find the lock that guarded the door, and the iron teeth were fixed on the past, as if biting into the secret, and the only one who was loyal to this room was it, and it was already rusty, refusing all the keys, but the wooden door had decayed, and a gust of wind could push the door in, and I was the gust of wind, and I came in and out again, and I saw that in the opening and closing of the door, the house was returning to the dirt.