Sitting on these stairs looking out, I'm struck by the appearance of the passage to outside. It has been obliterated almost to the point of never having existed. The outside has come in and while it hasn't taken over, the two have blended. The plants in the corner there look as if they've grown out of the wallpaper.
As I run my hand over the banister worn through use first and neglect later, I wonder about the family who lived here. Why did they leave? Where did they go? I long to know their story. The sun outside beckons me, but instead of answering it, I slowly climb the stairs and gain the second floor. Up here, the outside isn't as prominent, in the blend of natural and manmade, but walls have been taken down and the space is so open it draws you closer to the edge, just so you're near something solid.
The echoes up here are louder. Echoes of more than just my footsteps -- echoes of another age, of fleeting words. I expect darkness here, I'm not sure why -- do I think it rises as heat does? But the light penetrates every corner, even those in shadow, somehow. The shadowy corners are so inviting here. I feel like I want to crawl inside them to ask what secrets they're hiding. The peeling paint and plaster have so many colours, it distracts me even from the view in the garden.

Voice of the Abandoned House

I have forsaken you. You used to love me but now I'm alone, and I forsake you. Nothing here is as it was; everything has died. And to spite you, I'm staying alive. Look at me - I come alive with the spring as if you hadn't left me here to wither. Death is fleeting and permanent. Beauty in chaos is eminent. I fall, yet I never hit bottom. Look at me. Light lets me live when the darkness threatens. Shadows are cast in beauty, not terror. You may have abandoned me, but it is I who have forsaken You.

Part II

I know not why we've been left here. The shelves are empty, the doors flung wide. The windows have been disintegrated and no one has come to find out why. And yet, we're not lonely. The light comes to visit every day, bringing the shadows to play as well. There are words here which echo in the silence, words which are shadows of themselves and of other times. The words keep us company almost as if they never left. Nothing is everything around us. The emptiness is so full that we burst. And still, no one is here. I cannot understand why. Haven't we served the echoes well?