The geography of living is bordered by memory.
Timothy was born in the bedroom, lived in the sitting room, vacationed in the kitchen, and died in the bathroom.
These are his dimensions.
In the bedroom, he was conceived. He was reconceived, when he first loved there and every time thereafter.
The kitchen was his adventure, nourishing possibility with each meal. He foraged and found, cleaned and cut, measured and mixed, cooked and assembled and, at last, ate.
The sitting room was his occupation. He paced. He measured. He counted.
The bathroom was the beginning and the ending of his days. He abluted and expurgated the space between time.
Each dimension of living had its place. Each rhythm jointed smoothy. They cornered into the walls, leaving rooms and the doors between them.
The windows he loved most of all. By the windows, within each room’s unique dimensions and rhythms, he imagined he saw into, through, and past time.
By the living room’s window, he imagined that he lived with others and that he remembered living with them too. By the kitchen’s window, he imagined the same of his adventuring. By the bathroom’s window, he imagined unwanted peers sneaking in with the light. By the bedroom’s window, with the curtains drawn, he learned that no matter how much or how hard he loved, he always loved alone.
Timothy lived in his little house. He lived and lived and lived and, after one unexpectedly final expurgation, the borders of memory fell away, leaving not even those dimensions to mark where he had been.