The first place we stopped at had once probably been a small farm/ranch house. I called the place “Poetry House” because on every conceivable wall and flat space was writings and counter writing of someone and their detractors. The allegories were in some places disturbing and angry and lost all at once. Many appeared to be the musings of a child molester.
Graffiti and counter graffiti covered the exterior and writings the interior. In many instances, someone covered all with circles of paint. There was a pervasive sense of sadness is this place. Writings like these didn’t do much to lift the mood either.
What manner of life burned away in this place? Fire is said to be the ultimate cleanser, but even it was incomplete in this place.
What were stranger than strange were the remnants of life old and new that seem to cling to the place. Someone had been here very recently.
Yes, that’s a bag of very fresh celery in the middle of the floor. No, pardon the pun, we didn’t plant it there.
In the fading light, this vista seemed a sad reminder of a past tainted.