OUR HOUSE WASN'T SINGING
THE HOLE STORY
There is a tiny but overgrown network of fictional worlds, available only in portals for the glimpsing. Stories that gain their age through the endless recombination of fragments, filling themselves in some with every retelling. Characters whose corporeality may never be found, but whose homes remain, and whose tales might be reconstructed – from sounds they made, spaces they filled, from bits of knock-kneed iconography. These fictions embrace the fact that there are multiple versions of every mythology – the contradiction of fiction prediction. And thus they grow incomprehensibly slow. The constant readjusting of realities: nothing quite fits, but everything works. Or everything fits, and none of it works. In truth, the whole of this scrappy little epic is exactly equal to the sum of its parts, most of which are really wholes, and all of which are holes. It’s a story full of holes. And that’s the hole story.