Conjoined mounds, a doppelgänger of its displaced mistress, sits upon the land enchanted, cooing.
So who does she mean to woo remains lost in geodesic thought about how love is metaphysical gravity and naturally wanders right past the white picket fence gate at first before retracing his steps, straining to listen. Her voice, though a thousand miles away, can be heard through the thick purple sky from the setting sun, amplified by the trapezoidal plates overlapping sheet metal salvaged from the abandoned Volvo ready for scrap, some sections barely duck taped, which form the outer shell as roof.
No bunny ranch here, just a woebegone Dymaxion house, the angel on his shoulder whispers, distracted by what R. Buckminster Fuller mistook as tetrahedrons behind the twisted chicken wire armature propping the aluminum foiled coat hanger bent into antennae.
Yet something about the atrophic structure beckons and eventually instinct does force him to stop hunting long enough to knock on the prefabbed door. A hoarse welcome shouts to come in which he begrudgingly abides. But why invite such a ghost? Let bygones be bygones, they say, but she takes comfort knowing her place is not haunted by infected genetic material.
But bad blood will often more than not still coagulate so the dark interior requires his eyes several minutes to adjust in order to repay an old debt saving big money and slowly dilated pupils overstimulate.
For the portal he passed through, a spade-shaped window frame of sprawling vines now becomes another dimension which belies the external state of disrepair in classic forensics, compliments of the stepbrother who would be handyman squatting in residence, ready to argue the Fibonacci sequence in defense.
March follows the long February of Iroquois snow. So where did she go? When will the lady of the house return?
Soon the water will flow again.