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A recorded reading of “The House That Built Itself”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
It started with a single nail… A single wall, a single door, but then it thought, I should be more. It raised its beams, it stretched its spine, it shaped itself, defined design. The bricks would shift, the halls would hum, it built itself for no one, from none. No hands, no blueprints, no decree— the house became because it pleased. Did I start too small? Did I grow too fast? Did I build myself to truly last? Am I a castle? A cage? A home? Am I a body made of stone? I twist, I turn, I shape, I grow— but what’s a house if no one knows? A thousand doors, a hundred stairs, but none to lead to anywhere. The rooms reshape, the windows blink, the house keeps changing how it thinks. A wall collapsed, another formed, a spiral stretching toward the storm. But in its bones, a quiet fear— it asked itself, Why am I here? Maybe walls don’t need a name. Maybe homes don’t need a frame. Maybe doors are made to close, maybe houses stand alone. Am I a castle? A cage? A home? Am I a body made of stone? I twist, I turn, I shape, I grow— but what’s a house if no one knows? A single hammer tap… then silence.
Lyrics
"It started with a single nail…" A single wall, a single door, but then it thought, I should be more. It raised its beams, it stretched its spine, it shaped itself, defined design. The bricks would shift, the halls would hum, it built itself for no one, from none. No hands, no blueprints, no decree— the house became because it pleased. Did I start too small? Did I grow too fast? Did I build myself to truly last? Am I a castle? A cage? A home? Am I a body made of stone? I twist, I turn, I shape, I grow— but what’s a house if no one knows? A thousand doors, a hundred stairs, but none to lead to anywhere. The rooms reshape, the windows blink, the house keeps changing how it thinks. A wall collapsed, another formed, a spiral stretching toward the storm. But in its bones, a quiet fear— it asked itself, Why am I here? Maybe walls don’t need a name. Maybe homes don’t need a frame. Maybe doors are made to close, maybe houses stand alone. Am I a castle? A cage? A home? Am I a body made of stone? I twist, I turn, I shape, I grow— but what’s a house if no one knows?
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