Her home is a sinkhole. Things go in but never come out. It, like her life, kind of just collapsed in on itself. Those childhood china dolls she found, orphans dumped in an alleyway, they went in, never against to have the sunlight gleam against their glassy, empty eyes. The boxes of her memories are stacked to the ceiling; she says they are arranged by year, but no one believes that. They say a neighborhood boy once threw a ball through her window and entered to retrieve it. He, like the ball, was never seen again. Maybe he was simply lost in the labrynth of her mementos and knickknacks or crushed by the remains of a life that was stacked so high but still came tumbling down.