The Filchers don't care. You are just in their way. We're not real to them. Things, though. Things breathe, and feel, and transmit messages to us when we're fast asleep. Take that house on the corner, for example. It whispers a reedy greeting each time you pass by. "Hallooo Yoo." Things know us by how we use them. They remember us by smell and by touch. The doorbell of the house on the corner never forgot how you rang it and ran when you were eight years old.
Hallooo Yoo.
The door opens.
Tiny bumps erupt on a borrowed body.
What? You waiting for an invitation?
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
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