mote

people are houses and houses are people

eyes are the windows to the soul and windows are the eyes of the house

the house and the haunting are the same

humans are haunted houses. we are both the rooms and the ghosts in the corners

when a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth

god's a house. our house is god

you are not a house haunted by a ghost, you are a ghost haunted by a house

it's the house. it wasn't made for love, the house

strange house we must keep and fill. house that eats and pleads and kills. house that believes it is not a house

the house is a living organism. the house is the skin of the human body

no live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. hill house, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of hill house, and whatever walked there, walked alone