On the day of Epiphany, the guests arrived. The door was open, the lock broken, I had not heard a thing. I just happened to go out into the hall as the cuckoo clock struck, and there they were.When I, pleased and confused, held the living room door open for them, one of the walls had caved in over sideboard and rug and screamed with all its pink-underwear paint, with a sharp smell of lime. I accompanied the big-eyed guests to the bedroom, but the lamps broke loose and jumped at our legs like dogs and onto the beds like cats. We went back to the kitchen. The stove had taken center-stage, addressing the populace. The table was clamping its legs together in panic. The cabinet, pale, with a pinched smile.