Gale force winds shoot past my Tin box.
Alone, I bolt for its solace.
The faint smell of damp, it’s seeping power stronger than my store bought fan.
A lean to the right, it never seems to level.
Small chores niggle incessantly and rob me of my rest.
Cold, damp, loud.
Comfort is constant work.
The small suffering of it, the middle distance tension, keeps me alive.
The pain is the thrill.
This is life.