closets, the kind tucked into an eve, part of a dormer with what some might call a knee wall at the back, rising to match the roof slope above.

This knee wall is eye-height, meaning there is a world of room for a room of your, our world back there, behind that wall, over the living room and below the roof.

Bungalows are notorious for walled off spaces, eye-wall sometrics of opportunity. Yes, I envision a secret panel to be pushed, just so. Or a book on a book case tilted just so to release the panel. Or a button among the clothes hooks, door frames, floor boards. And once opened, a treasure chest will lie within, holding us, our wants and needs and secret lives.

Yes, Darling. I’m inn like Flynn, both feet, leaping and not looking for the eyes have foreseen. In for the long haul, the duration, the magnitude, to have and to hold and to honour and cherish.

I hung a full moon out for you tonight, and salted the yard with fireflies, the better to see you. And I shall chase you till you catch me, and that moon, full and radiant and of potentials to be discovered, will be the first secret within the chest within the room that only we see.