The house was a hard sell: a white-elephant-big, repair-starved relic, painted bright yellow. The rich eccentric bought it anyway, after years of people turning it down. Or, in haiku:
All told, for a price that polled
As "That leaves us cold."
I've been reading Ray Bradbury, by the way. I think that's reflected in how the little story starts.
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Maybe not feeling poetic is a poetic state all its own?
Try to capture that feeling - I think that will be reflective of many folks'…