A contribution by uninsured bunch0

The dogged life that had been lived in these rooms refused to be obliterated. It was still there; it clung to the nails that were left, it lingered on the remaining strip of floorboarding, it was huddled up under the little that was left of a corner section.

You could see in the paintwork how, slowly, year by year, it had changed blue into a mildewy green, green into grey, and yellow into an old, stagnant, putrefying white. And it had actually got into fresher-looking places behind mirrors, pictures and cupboards because it had traced and retraced their outlines amid the spiders and dust even in these hidden places that were now exposed.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

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