Among the black space of the box, now turning softer, now gone cushy, streaming, the father, aging, wormed. He could not tell at all where he was going. Every inch matched every inch.
Into the shape of box surrounding, the father walked into the box.
Every so often he would open up his eyes again slowly, unreleasing, buttons pressing in reverse. Walls around him. Stalls around him. Houses. All mass. Massed. Opening each instant. On in. On.
If there is one hole in any home there must be many, he heard himself shout somewhere inside him.
Outside his skin he heard the night.