I like old houses because they have stories. Stumble upon an abandoned place and you can’t help but wonder what kind of lives were played out between its walls, but there’s no way of fully knowing. That history is always just around a corner, always slightly out of reach, because old houses keep secrets. Even when they’re left to rot and crumble, a familiar but nebulous human energy lingers behind. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you can feel it in your bones: there are memories in every crevice.
(Anyways, I'm back in the US for holiday break and I'm sure I'll write more updates on that later. I didn't realize how much I missed photo adventures with my Montevallo friends until we got naked in yet another abandoned house and it all came rushing back. Merry Christmas, guys.)