It's thought a little stumbling as a walk home is taken that the air has ushered in the summer and sweet humid sent is all around. It's thought as you show her up the stairs and warn her of the steep incline that all the crumpling plaster adds an ambiance and makes mystique deepen in some weird way. It's thought that during the awkward door unlocking time that the overwhelming smell of curry in the hallway is somehow an advantage. It's thought that as she stares at the bookcase she stares in some admiration of all the titles wanted and some wanted in some wet way solidifies the reason for the steep incline and the curry. It's thought that as I cross my legs and light my pipe with what little I can scrounge from the spent plastic bag that I am somehow something in her blue eyes as she stares out the window at the trashcans and giant noise machines. It's thought that she would say something in some narrow language but it's all stares and hair flips and shifting skirts with lips pointed towards the high ceilings. It's thought that all the hungry grasping for splinters wicked in design is worth the collars and confinement.