Q1: What does it look like?

A1: House, single storey, semi-detached, running out of lease, walls swelling, tiles loosening out of the floors.

Q2: What's the tenor of this relationship?

A2: Something that's there. Like an object left in a room (the history of metaphor is full of objects left in rooms). The memory of the house colonises imaginations of it.

Q3: What memories are attached to it?

A3: Nothing sweet. I remember more of the dreams in which it's strangely empty, hollowed out for other uses. Full of shades. Violet light, paralysis, static.

Q4: Would you rather the house not exist?

A4: It's not the same now ("can't step into the same river twice"). We live in a world where things exist and I'm kind of in a brainspace where I wish things would rather not. Smoothed over, a kind of ruddy crater in the mud, filling sometimes with rainwater. Falling paint and white dust. How a house may be broken like a ship after an immense quantity of effort; it becomes messier, falls into the world.

Q5: Thirty years, running down. What does the word 'lease' mean to you?

A5: Lease as legal reality governing the rate of which things fall into the world.

Q6: What is a ghost story?

A6: "Every ghost story is a love story." I'm running out of love here.