There is something I like about old houses. Like old people, their faces tell a story. They stand for some kind of failure, because in the end they collapse. Yet at the same time, they tell a story of success, because their age means, for a while at least, they stood the test of time. They weathered storms, they kept out the rain and heat. They sheltered their inhabitants and gave them a home to return to after a hard day. I cannot help but ask myself, who lived in them and what memories do they hide. Were the people who lived in them happy and why did they eventually leave? Also, from a purely aesthetic point of view, I love how they weather and age, returning slowly to the landscape around them. I wonder what history, culture and economic circumstances caused them to be built as they are in the first place.