I love urban ruins.

They evoke some sort of nostalgia of something that was never mine. An insight into lives of others past and present that may have used that shelter, given it significances filled it with their memories, hopes, sadnesses and histories. And yet the brick and mortar that presents itself remains silent to all that. It bears only traces, unrecognizable to me, an outsider, that cannot possibly recognize the markings on the floor as a table, or a bed, or a wardrobe... I see only the superposed layers of time materialized in those ruins. My eyes are blind to what my heart can only hope to grasp.