It's been so long that the clocks have rusted. Shreds of time stuck between the cogwheel's teeth.
Spiders trace and retrace their paths across the doorway, as though unable to believe no one has returned.
A stone comes through the window, lies on the floor. Like a throat waiting to say something.
The dead man hangs from the rafters. His clothes rot and fall away, his flesh too. At some point, the bees discover the empty hangar of his skull and build inside it. The tip of the hive hangs down to his chest like a beard.
Slow armies of moss overrun the carpet. The couch is lost to a bombardment of mushrooms. Wallpaper countries peel from their maps.
Now that the window is filmed with dust, the light enters like a ghost, touching first one thing then another, leaving no impression.