Let's say

your life begins its left turn next door, where the acanthus slings her blanched blooms over a railing so wrought it's obvious it's fought two battles to get out of God's workshop, where the eaves cling in turns to the retiring roof and to their own trumped-up fortitude, where the paint on the walls is the wall's friend but not the friend you choose, and every light visible from within dances its lugubrious yellow in an unsteady hula hazed with hints and obfuscations, the left turn being the turn no one but your odd grandmother (and you insisted you don't take after her!) wants to take next, though of the available options it has the benefit of inevitability what with its slope being abrupt and down, very down, down in a tear the wheels off and you'll keep rolling toward the pit kind of way, the pit, the pit, so picturesque, that pit, and calling your childish and secret name.