I am

in here; it is loud. There is the annoying background sound of a television somewhere. I can't make out any particular words but it's loud enough to be distracting. Worse yet, few words are audible every so often and it seems to be some teenage angst show. There is a clothes dryer operating somewhere as well. A constant hum, a sound meant to be background noise but too loud to stay there, like a bee buzzing next to a megaphone. Repetitive yet comforting in its predictability.

There is a slight breeze nudging the house plants that line the banister. The weight of their vines will surely bring them tumbling down at some point. Deep green vines reach over the banister, their leaf-fingers reaching out to tempt gravity. And they grow longer. What will they do once their length reaches the floor? Will they ever? Will they see their impending dead end and curl up in reluctance? Or will they confront their conundrum and simply continue their growth as they slither across the tile floor and seek refuge in the pot of another random house plant somewhere at the foot of the stairs? A sort of bonding out of necessity. What causes this? Are they growing with a particular direction in a conscious effort to find others who might empathize? Or do they grow without thought, controlled by gravity, the very phenomenon they pretend to thumb their noses at with their precarious balance on the banister?