I do not know the physics of non- living objects and how they communicate, but my walls are talking. Not only my walls, but my bureau, bookcase, curtains and bed. The floor, ceiling, window sills. The wastebasket, mirror, door knobs. There is a loud soundless vibration pulsing through my apartment. The place has a personality, and all places do. Take a moment and hear the place that you’re at. You might think that it’s a place in your mind, the way you are reacting to your environment but I suggest that it is the environment itself. It is pressing its identity on you. You and your space are shoulder to shoulder, trying to gain an edge. As Oscar Wilde said on his deathbed, looking at the sickly yellowing wallpaper, “Either this wallpaper goes, or I go.” Well, he went. He exploded, but that’s another story. The walls were closing in on him, and they can do the same to you. Alcoholics warn of geographic cures, believing that you take yourself and your problems wherever you go, and yes, you may take your problems, but you don’t take the place you came from, and that’s the whole idea. Some places just seem right and some seem wrong, especially one’s apartment or house. The houses and apartments absorb all those who went before. They contain the stains of past, or, in the case of brand new houses or apartments, the stains of the future. Don’t ask me why. Go over to a lamp and grab hold of it. It is alive with vibes. It has a temperature, a skin, an attitude. The floor rumbling up through your sneakers, is talking to you, carrying you forward, toward the bureau. You pick up a bottle of aspirin. The bottle speaks to the palm of your hand. The plastic tingles, the pills arrange. All this activity around you, in a silent space. A message in every object. The song of your space. What is it telling you?