A Fair Offer

We are stuck in this place which softness has fled. Sentimentality can not be accommodated, lest one is willing to blow his nose with bars of polished silver. Neither can a diamond broach easily remove the mist from your eye. It is what we desired from the distance of both yardage and age. Remember our choice of guides? Notable ones encouraged us from behind a wink. Those that held our esteem kept the secret well. Oh they knew. Yet it tickled them to sell us an opulent junkyard. Fountains that spout gasoline began as a jest, but were never corrected back to their original utility. It's amazing how one house can eliminate neighbors on each side and block out the stars. However, should your health fail suddenly, migrating geese will be your singular hope. They are the only life we do not ruthlessly managed that halfway trust this manicured dwelling. Notice how the servants do not serve. Try, fetch one. A smile and wave is all you'll get. They are ornaments with an embarrassing lung capacity. Notice the limited selection of cakes that burst with artisanal flare as if Davinci was handed a tube of icing? Only show pieces. Each of them are stuffed with tissue paper. Take care not to jostle the heated tank. Our goldfish are real. They are even assigned an au pair that comes highly recommended. Yet, it is her personal assistant that feeds them. Inflation is not a concern in our halls. She rings in a hefty bonus of whatever can be stolen. It hardly matters at this point. No one makes it past two years anyway. Our shower units have become so elaborate that there is no space for a toilet. In the night we dig holes and can be found crouching like wild strays. We quickly return to rooms that are sound proof, which is odd. This sterile residence is devoid of laughter, weeping, music, or sex. It's like killing four birds with one prescription. I would show you the patio, but you might be intimidated out of a bid. If this be the last we see of you, happy house hunting.