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{{ C r i m s o n P e a k }}


Not a window was broken,
And the paint wasn't peeling.
Not a porch step sagged,
Yet still there was a feeling.

That beyond that door and into the hall,
This was a house of no one at all.

No one who breathed,
Nor laughed, nor ate.
Nor said "I love."
Nor said "I hate."

Yet something walked along the stair.
Something that was and wasn't there.

And that is why weeds on the path grow high,
And even the moon races fearfully by.

For something walks along the stair,
Something that is and isn't there

- Vic Crume (1970)

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