I feel sorry for dilapidated houses when they are forced to expose their insides like that — It’s like they are forced to expose their secrets, their private histories.

Who knows what people stared at themselves in the now broken bathroom mirror early in the morning while washing sleep from their faces, or late in the afternoon while running a brown plastic comb through their thinning hair, or on a Sunday morning while applying foam on their upper lip to get rid of the moustache that had now gone off fashion.

Like old folk, these old houses with their guts spilled out move me deeply and bring tears to my eyes. Something about their vulnerability, something about their low defences, something about their inability or unwillingness to hide anymore. Something about their truth…