What I know as home is a place of dim lighting. It is a place less seen, less known, less traveled. I have been there my whole life, and it has remained unchanged. But the people, they do change. The man that once sat against the rugged brick wall has rotted, skin falling from bone, maggots burrowed deep. He still stares at me, though, with those hollow eyes. His skeleton is what remains – another addition to my home. This is my life. This damp cloth pulling me back towards the earth, threatening to drown me in the shallow, murky puddles which refuse to evaporate. Passersby fail to see me, as if I have become one with the ground. Mud surrounds me. Mud cakes my skin. I am the mud.