As I have simply no use for pointless beginnings ... 'he said, she said' and further banalities, I will begin where most pertinent in accordance to my whim.
The skies may have been blue, or the grass a verdant green. And a love interest, had I possessed one, might have chewed his nails in angst over my proclivity towards aloofness.
As it is, none of that need concern one here.
For my Here with a capital 'H' happens to be sandwiched between above and below, underneath a ponderous Victorian cellar floor - heavily webbed with cracks which have split the bricks and caused the mortar to crumble in spots - AND somewhere above a sharply pitched ancient roof as might be seen in those European towns still old in the time of the Brothers Grimm.
For I have encountered the most incredible of discoveries. That of which is a house fully buried beneath the one I have lived my entire life in ignorance of its existence.
House A and House B.
Here I will admit that had I not been painfully and rather suddenly devoid of a love interest, likely I would not have been searching through the dismal alcoves of our cellar in search of my father's cache of 'company' wines and spirits - for when my mother was alive our home was frequently given to entertainment.
I wish I had found a bottle of something - anything -because I could certainly use a stiff belt of courage given my current situation.
As I said, I am quite inexplicably and confoundedly sandwiched between here and there, above and below, and I am practically smothered in filth as I'm catching my breath perched on this rickety excuse of a stairwell that seems less life-worthy than my mother's 1923 rolls-royce silver ghost salamanca languishing in the coach house these last two years.
to be continued at leisure.