There, on Wheelock Avenue is a house - abandoned. It cannot speak its interesting tale. Its vine lives along tight, peacefully in some areas - carnivorous in others. There is no heat. There is no water. But the story is there, under the litter in the yard, in the corners that haven't been touched, woven into the fabric around the wires, in the basement draining onto the floor. I see you, Wheelock. I hear you, even though you cannot speak for yourself. We are kindreds.
Mudança 