The house of thought has no doors tonight.

I begin in a cellar that doesn't exist—its walls breathe with the memory of earth, not stone. The air is thick with the scent of buried apples, each one dreaming its own slow fermentation into something that might be wisdom or might be rot. Bachelard whispers that every cellar is a metaphysics, and I wonder if he knew how the darkness here is not absence but accumulation: centuries of shadow pressed into corners like forgotten preserves.

My reverie climbs the stairs—no, becomes the stairs—each step a different density of woodworm and regret. The banister has the temperature of a child's fevered forehead. I am not ascending; I am being distilled. The landing arrives with the suddenness of a childhood memory: my grandmother's linen closet where sheets held the shapes of bodies long absent. The lavender sachets have become small blue planets, orbiting the gravitational pull of absence.

Now the attic—of course the attic. But this is not storage; it is a laboratory where silence experiments on itself. Cobwebs are conducting research into the tensile strength of forgetting. A dressmaker's dummy stands guard, draped in the muslin of possibility. It has my measurements but someone else's dreams. When the wind moves through the eaves, it plays the ribs of the house like a glass harmonica, producing notes that might be names I'm not yet ready to remember.

I discover that I've been breathing through the chimney, my thoughts rising in slow smoke-rings that spell out words in languages that exist only as nostalgia for futures that never arrived. The roof tiles are scales on a sleeping dragon; when it wakes, it will yawn open entire weather systems.

The reverie turns a corner that wasn't there.

Suddenly I am underwater in the upstairs bathtub that connects to no plumbing, filled with rainwater that has been learning to remember the ocean. My reflection wears a different face each time the surface trembles—my mother's eyes, my father's hands, the child's mouth that knew how to speak to shadows. The water is warm with the metabolism of clouds. When I lift my hand, droplets fall upward, returning to their element like prayers too shy to be spoken aloud.

Bachelard's voice now comes from the medicine cabinet: "Imagination is not fantasy. It is the exact calculation of the possible." The mirror shows me not my face but the negative space where my face should be—a kind of portrait done in absence. In that hollow, I see the house from the outside: how it grows like a fungus from the center of a thought, its windows blinking slowly in the language of moths.

The reverie knows it must end, but endings here are simply invitations to deeper rooms. I find myself standing in the threshold between two breaths, holding a key made of crystallized dawn. It opens nothing because everything is already open, just slightly ajar, breathing the way a sleeping animal breathes—unconscious proof that the world continues its dreaming without us.

The house settles around my thoughts like snow on warm skin. I am the guest and the architecture. The reverie closes its eyes, but the house keeps dreaming me.

The house dreams on, but its dream begins to question the difference between structure and weather.

I was the house, but now the house is becoming something else—a lung made of lath and plaster, inhaling geography from the outside world. The wallpaper begins to weather. Outside rain, a gentle pressure that was never rain before: the idea of water moving through boards that remember being trees, the way memories remember being moments. The grain changes direction; cellulose reorganizes itself like soldiers changing allegiance mid-battle.

I find myself lying down on the floor that is no longer floor but rather a horizontal lake suspended in its own surface tension. My reflection sinks but does not drown—becomes a submarine archaeologist investigating the shipwreck of my previous thoughts. Down here, language fossilizes into coral; every sentence I've ever spoken hardens into the homes of small phosphorescent creatures that spell out their own etymologies in bioluminescent Morse code.

The cellar again, but now it opens downward through its own absence. Root cellars inverted: carrot tops protruding from the ceiling like orange chandeliers. A taproot extends past basements, past bedrock, into the molten library at the earth's core where all words are kept in their molten form, before they cooled into languages with borders. The books down here are still being written by the pressure of ten tons of stone per syllable.

Bachelard (or his echo) suggests: "Perhaps the reverie is not in the house, but the house is in the reverie, nesting like Russian dolls where each larger structure contains not smaller ones but larger ones." I turn this thought over and find its interior has grown a new exterior—suddenly I am standing in the original house, but it's inside a much larger house whose rooms are weather patterns. The kitchen is a thunderstorm brewing coffee. The bedroom is a low-pressure system gently snoring in cirrus sheets.

I climb the stairs that have become a barometer. Each step measures rising thoughts in millibars of melancholy and mercurial joy. The landing, when I reach it, exists at exactly the height where childhood left off and adulthood remained unfinished—unfinished like a sentence that wandered away to have its own life. Here, the mirror reflects not images but tenses—past conditional, future subjective, pluperfect longing.

Through a window that used to be a door, I see the garden that was never planted. Vegetables dreaming themselves into existence: theoretical tomatoes, hypothetical beans, possible potatoes growing in the conditional soil of if only. A scarecrow made of yesterday's shadows waves with arms that become dusk, that become the feeling of being watched by something that isn't there but might remember being there sometime.

Now the attic again, but it has evolved. The rafters are whalebones. Cobwebs are now neural synapses; a fly caught there is thinking its way out by composing small treatises on the philosophy of flight. The dressmaker's dummy has learned to dance with the shadow cast by a moon that isn't real enough to cast shadows, but real enough to dance with. Its pirouettes generate wind that moves backward through time, rustling pages of books not yet written.

I discover the house has a room that's just the memory of the house. It's smaller than the actual house by the exact volume of all the conversations ever held within its walls. The air here is thick with spoken dust. Words settle on shelves like dandruff from giant heads dreaming. I breathe in a syllable—yes, I think it was yes—and it tastes like the color of approval I craved at age seven.

But the reverie knows that houses, like thoughts, must metabolize their own structural impossibility. So the walls begin to soften like bread in warm milk. I am now inside a house that is a digestive system for its own architecture. Beams transubstantiate into the rigging of ships sailing across parquet seas. The staircase spirals into a nautilus of forgetting whose last step is the first thought you ever had.

In the final alcove (which used to be the space under the stairs but has grown cathedral-dimensions), I meet the house breathing its own air. It has no lungs, only the memory of lungs that were never there—architectural ghosts of respiration. We regard each other with the mutual curiosity of dreams dreaming themselves awake.

"Shall we wake?" I ask the structure, which now feels less like shelter and more like a process—a continuous metabolism of boundary and invitation.

"Wake into what?" replies the house, whose walls have now become entirely porous, letting in the exact amount of reality necessary to maintain reverie.

Together, we decide to remain in this threshold place—not quite dreaming, not quite wakeful, but exactly the texture where thought remembers it is weather.

The house exhales.
The reverie continues by not ending.