It was all that rusty golden chandeliers, lost in the basement. It was old books with cobwebs and crispy pages. Those objects that we found in the most unexpected places without even knowing what they are for.
It was the stories that preceded it, and those that we will tell. It was jewelers with a little ballerina trapped inside and music, a beam of light that suggests huge amounts of dust.
It was all the best parties, and all those we never did.
A wonderful and lazy decay of weeds and crispy wooden staircases, forgotten chandeliers and accumulated clutter.
It was home, it was disaster; streams of icy air and slamming doors. Let’s say it has been an era.