Take down to the studs. Dismantle walls, yank up floorboards, rip roof till the black chasm of foundation fills with sun. What could be illuminated. Scrape for bone and craft from it a starting place. Pull hope in from the corners. Lift each stone—even those heaviest ones hiding in the back garden. Let light slip underneath. Let be the gasping kindness. Inch becomes foot becomes yard becomes property unfenced: finds freedom. What doesn’t need a home; what chafes at the root. Insist on patience. Demand premise. Acknowledge underpinning. Explore what exists despite, inside, because of. The gulf between safety and staying is an illusion—rebuild is not retread; return is not retreat. Make of it a life’s project: construct sentence as groundwork. Reimagine the story’s structure concretely. Become the sunlit basement, building ever upward into a grammar of blue sky.