I discovered every week of new homes dropped. So many around my house. After they battered roads are there, always there, always more tired. Permeable under roofs. Inside, the wallpapers are yellowed and eaten. The lace curtains, threadbare. Like their weaknesses. Imagine the lives, lives that revolved around them when they were still called "farms". It was not that long.
All these houses are so similar. Same door, same grand staircase, the same huge barrels stored in the cellar, the same crates perched at the top stables. And generally the same view on the Pyrenees. And for myself sad to see them become damaged area in winter.
Each of them makes me dream. I draw them if they can not buy them.
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