if found this house yesterday, on the next street, and immediately and inexplicably wanted to cry. i have come back to stand in front of it twice today, my head filling with stories about who must live in the top floor, where the door leading to the decaying balcony is open. it must be the home of someone like the canterville ghost. judging by the inscription "léta páně mdccccv," it was built in 1905.
then later today, i saw one of "our" men, in a black trench coat, walking down the street toward me, and decided that he, without a doubt, lives, slightly miss havisham-style, in this house. he drinks cold tea and sits at a three-legged writing desk, writing detective stories.
yes.
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