The bathroom sink dangles haphazardly, affixed to a bucking lath and plaster wall by the strength of its copper plumping, the metal stressed and warped from years of neglect, begging to snap free. Right beside the swaying sink, a neighboring commode full of questionable crap quivers loosely a dozen feet above my skull as I gaze up in curiosity at its balancing act though a gaping hole in the rotten wood floor. I contemplate my moves as one wrong step might send just enough of a reverberation through the old house's decaying wooden skeleton frame to shake the latrine loose, sending it plummeting down like wrecking ball into the depth of the basement below, as I hopefully scamper away in horror, as to avoid death by shitter.
Sometimes I contemplate my mortality, for certainly if something is going to take me, I'd hope it be adventure. However, being found months later crushed under the weight of a porcelain throne would certainly be one way to go, yet realistically I'd be more likely to be smooshed crossing the street in order to get back to my vehicle parked along side of the busy county road. The interior of this particular abandoned house poses as an interesting death trap, for every floor, ceiling, and weight bearing wall seems to be held in place merely by layers of grime and decay as opposed to nails and beams. This makes walking around the upstairs floors all the more interesting, especially since the only way up is to ascend a floating staircase, not by design but rather decay.