I live in a cocoon, which I constructed myself from the sheets of silk spun by the larvae of various worms and creatures who share this dark space with me. I live in a proper city, but I sought for myself an improper place to live because I despise noise. It's under a bridge. There is water under me, from which I collect algae to cleanse my lungs and face, and in which I swim every day that my bones are willing. I have been here fifty years, but there was only one person I ever talked to in this city.
He came when I was settling in and when he was starting to explore. He was not from this city. He carried a bag filled with belongings of his-journals and papers. He came to my door one day and asked if he could see my house. I spat at him, and said he should leave, but he sounded desperate, telling me he almost slipped on algae on his way down the stairs, and he could have died, so he would appreciate if that wasn't for nothing. I decided on telling him that the stairs were slippery for precisely that reason: to keep out loons like himself.
He did not leave.
I stared at him, examining his bone structure, which was rigid and tight. My bones were curved, because I had a hunched back. I might have been near his height if I was capable of standing straight.
I didn't want to be tall, anyways. I didn't want to be like him. I definitely did not want to live in a proper house, which is a human illusion.
I finally succeeded in getting him to leave, when he said that he wanted to know the "truth" about me. If all the rumors were true. He was just like everyone else, with a hunger for odd stories like mine, just for curiosity's sake, but unable to get off their high horses and live in a swamp themselves.
He apologized, and he left. I made my way back down my webbed hallway to get a cup of soup and sit with a magazine. I still thought he was illusory, and I did not enjoy anyone who lived in a concrete home or in a proper city. The Earth, I knew, was here for me to live on, not for people to build layers of illusions on that sucked the life out of her from deep inside her roots.
I did not believe in anything in this city. I did not believe in any buildings or motorcycles, and I certainly did not believe in my visitor, until he came back.