The wood pegged the furniture too the floor.
It pushed hard into the cement, sending a trail of cracks leading from one room to the next.
Dust seamed the edges of this now mosaic floor.
Moisture filled the wells that trailed its dividing lines.
His foot got stuck in the artwork. Wedged, he could not move.
The room had moved but the furniture remained the same.
Fronts, backs, legs, tops and bottoms stared openly at him inviting him to sit or lean.
He felt no longer relaxed in the sturdy grip that reality had over him.
He was a housewife, and addition to the household.
People passed in and out barely noticing he possessed eyes, ears a mouth and nose.

Again, Blake had gone.