Abandoned train stations, old barns, houses like this… storytellers.

How fast the fall can come. One hour on one day, one single event and everything that once was solid and stable can collapse into ruin.

What caused the roof to fall and the doors to come off their hinges and the water to find its way into the cracks in the foundation.

Did the last one to close the door turn and shed a tear, remembering the front porch decorated with Christmas lights, or men sitting in the backyard smoking cigarettes and drinking beer on the forth of July. Did they set off fire crackers while kids made those swirls with sparklers.

Was it the violence of poverty that lead to the collapse, or the violence of anger and rage. Did the owner simply pass away, and the property left to the wind and snow and the taxman.

On the last day were there police cars and ambulances in the driveway… or did last one, on the last day, simply walk away, without a bother to lock the door.

I find a strange beauty in the ugliness of this place. There is a story here. Standing outside as the sun sets, I can’t tell if I hear the hollow laughter of the ghosts that haunt this place, or the wind.