Before sleeping I worry that bricks are being stolen from my house and are then sold for hundreds of dollars. I can hear the thieves dismantling my walls one brick at a time: creating a new currency and going home to feed their brick children with brick-bought food. I flail at my bedside lamp certain that with the lights on I'll be able to see the fresh hole in my wall and a gang of handsome men loading bricks into the night. My pockmarked walls grow weaker each morning. I decide to hide bricks under my bed to protect what's left of my home, but the situation doesn't improve.