The lives of men, women and children have gone by in these places where they once lived. A long time. They are gone now, taking their secrets with them, leaving their mark and imprints that now only light and time visit. Then, the windows lighten up and the airy silence becomes eloquent and poetic. Always the same, but never alike, material and colour play between shadows and clarity as the hours, days, seasons pass. Subservient to passing time they could shout “Thief! Murderer!”; rather, in an expressive silence sometimes nostalgic but often enchanted, they tell old stories still within memory’s reach, all the while careless of the impermanence that will ultimately engulf them
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