There are abandoned carapaces ground down into black hash, or left among throngs of ants and forests of thread.

There are webs speckled with lead paint, unfed nymphs, wings of moths, a tidy few bustling when the mail is collected.

And there is moss growing on the roof, and algae on the floor, and mold in the ceilings where the water pours in.

There are rooms used only to stash the past, and there are strings of all sorts collecting dust but never vibrating with a jaunty tune.

Mycelia and rot will claim the whole of it, and leave only memories that lift as fog, and sediment that betrays little of what splendor we'd imagined we had known.