I've got this thing about empty rooms and empty space. Like there should be something more than painted walls and old window curtains left behind.

Sometimes I imagine there's a ghost in the walls, going about from room to room, in search of that which gave her life. A ghost who like the shedding of skin, lives in the same breath and time of its former self. Always searching for a way of reconnecting, like Peter Pan and his infamous shadow, to merge the two back into one.

The past plays over and lives again in silent houses late at night. Footsteps in the hall, echo like forgotten memories, while we slumber.

I wonder how you can ever go in a room without remembering me? So many things to remind you of home, but not the family that once lived there.