The Best Little Wordhouse in Texas

The first thing I noticed when I arrived, was the walls were covered in scribbles. People had been ppouring their words onto the walls, floors, ceilings and doors of this house for centuries. The only distinction was that some of the qualities of ink were slightly fresher than others. The people's eyes were dead, as they wandered from their typerwriters and books. They had given every part of themselves. Their clothes were turned into parchment, their hair had been roped into words, all to make a few pennies by selling it to the townsfolk. "TEN PENCE FOR A THOUSAND WORDS OF MY SOUL" would normally catch the ears of one or two of the handsome devils in the town. The men and women in the wordhouse had given their hair, their skin, and most importantly their souls, hoping someone would want what they had. And they didn't have much. Stories about their childhood wouldn't sell, so they would sell the last words their father had said to them, or the first words they had planned to say to their unborn children. After selling those, they'd sell the first words to their loved one, and the vows of their second marriage. Then they'd start to sell the last, angry words to end a bitter friendship, which it turns out are often harder to get people to part with.