Observers

The crumbling wallpaper, or at least what is left of it, is mostly singed in the spacious room. Various scribblers left their marks on the walls in multicolored spray-paint and the occasional Sharpie. The textured effect of defeated age meeting teenage art holds a certain charm. Light filters through the two empty door frames on either side of the house, as well as a single window, as dust motes dance idly through. Darkness collects in the corners along with a single flip-flop and a few whole peanuts. Those who left clues behind were now gone, but left permission to explore the answers they left to questions unasked.
From the outside, the stark emptiness that surrounds the place draws the eye from the rusted tin roof down into the fading shack place that someone, at some point, called home. And for a little while, it may be mine as well. The shady cavern inside shelters quiet minds that can't quite focus on the absoluteness of math, that can't quite focus on anything absolute at all. The wind sweeps away the worries and the regrets and the mundane, leaving only a sense of peace and understanding. From this quiet place, the building reconstructs itself; redefining everything that occurred within, open to the interpretations of the imagination.
And as the shed stands alone again, these dwellers left only smudges in the floor where the layers of accumulated dirt were disturbed.