It was crap, all of it, shat with these bastard-things that had been ripped from ground miles apart. Some are sharp, though most were blunt by the thrashing. Morsels of these objects were piled one atop the other, and the piles were plentiful. One lolled by his feet, and set just aback, slightly to his right, stood a door-like bust, palely outlined with a large hole where a knob tends to fix itself, but there is no knob, no, just this rectangle of holed wood. It was leant against the wall, a wall, he thinks, that was once part of his forebearer’s home. Tis hard to ascertain if it were ever really a home though, see it had been rolled on its neck and now lay there in such an odd contortion of the body. It was so peculiar, he thought, and on the inside, the bedlam would endure. Chair necks had been split, and there was a small basin, flipped over a table at the fore. He muses over the object and its corners for a while, so well rounded he thinks, with a gnarly crater at its centre, but there are no taps where he tends to imagine them. A sink maybe, but no, how can it be a sink without taps. Such an oddity, this little white tub, brickle and tap-less. He pauses at the anomaly, and everything seem stagnant, it just is, and the mess is a part of the ground now, as objects tend to fall when left for a while. They have been rubbed so hard until they are plain, just materials, yes, no pattern or brand, just materials, that’s all. And still the smell. He thought he could smell plastic, although how would plastic smell, like a smoky metal, it isn’t one, no, he can see through it so how can it be metal. How strange, it’s a harder kind of waft, difficult to pick out really, but he smells it, he knows that, and he sees it too, blues and pinks of orphaned oil caught by these swipes of wind, one of the few objects that animates by a gust. So thin, he thinks, and a push of air lamps them further into the corner. It folds repeatedly, and subtle creases always follow. That’s what he is looking at now, crumpled piles of coloured oil, stretched thin and pricked to the corner. He should pick it up, all this rubbish, someone should start to clear it away, yes he thinks, the ground needs ridding of it. Its rubbish, rubbish needs ridding. So he walks towards the plastic, and the fuchsia carpet parts beneath his determined stride, but he was careless to be so quick. There is all this rusted shrapnel littered amongst the fabric. Maybe the wind put them here, or in the chaos of the house turning over they fell from swelling tacks at its ceiling. Still, his shoes scuff and a small mark appears on the leather, bare and white, and now the raw cow feels the wind too, hard and fat. He notices the cold prick at his smallest toe and realises a hole is there now, yes, he has scuffed his leather shoes and now they are useless. What a fault it is, for a shoe to let wind spike at its toe. Useless he thinks. No matter, he takes a second step, and scuffs the shoe once more, this time he stalls, and so he bends at the waist to slowly reach a finger towards the plastic mess at his feet. It swings itself at him, and he raises the plastic from its floor, then to his pockets. They are deep pockets so he knows the rubbish will fit. It collapses to a ball, a trashy ball flecked with colours of pink and blue, and his hands are sweating now. Against the plastic his skin affords little room to breathe, and it needs a breath, as any object does. The palm unsticks itself from pearls of sweaty glue and with a small flutter of his wrist his hand slips to the side. He looks back at his shoe and the wind still swings at his idle toe. Useless he thinks.