The house where I lived, though not really mine, was in a nice enough neighborhood of tiny apartments. It was home, despite the mouse and other quirks.
As I stood at the intersection, I watched the flames gushing out of my apartment windows, and oddly enough, I realized I felt no upset or sadness.
The small street was lined with squat tiny houses, while the wider one had taller, slender houses reaching toward the sky, resembling churches in their structure.
The still cars flanking the wide road seemed like ironic reminders of mobility, contrasting with my own emotional state watching the flames engulf my home.
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