Rise up from the slab and plop your feet on the ground. It looks like concrete, like the altar you just warmed, but it is soft. Pliable. It feels lovely billowing between your toes, so lovely in fact that if you are not diligent, you could spend hours kneading this amazing greyness. Move forward. Look around at the houses on the square. Isn't the mismatchment so pleasant to your sleepy eyes? Like the old neighborhood in Laguna Hills, before tract housing became de rigueur. They are mismatched, but still one. Plod to the house with the light on, or the one with the porch swing. If you are feeling strong enough, if you dare, aim for the ramshackled red number, and walk inside.