From the time I was 12 years old I would find them: lonely staring, and empty. A vast canvas of forgotten times still lurking in their crumbling shadows. Starving for attention that will never come, yet content with the solitude that has found them. They speak to me, telling me of the things they have seen, the harsh winters they have endured. Rain pitter-patters on the rusty metal and the wooden beams swell and groan under the weight of disregard and a roof riddled with holes. I want to reach out and tell them not to give up, but I know I can't. Preservation is merely postponement, the inevitable always comes. Abandoned and forgotten, they cannot hate. As they slowly fade away into a past not to be remembered, they do not strive for a vigil. Humble fading entities, with only the raccoons and mice to keep them company on their journey into the sunset. Sit a spell in one of their forgotten chambers and you will hear them speak. I cannot hope to change what I know is to happen. The transformation from a loved homestead, to a shell of a former life, to a pile of rubble is as natural as our own destiny. My only hope is that I can somehow learn and relate to them, that I might gain an understanding of my own existence through the passing of theirs.