“There should have been paintings for us to see. Pictures of things real and not real, of landscapes and people. But in that moment, we could find only a portrait of ruin. We watched a hurricane of black pigeons swoop through a hole in the eaves. The floor opened wide and threatened to swallow us. Where it didn’t open, it hosted black pools of water. Light winced across the crumbled walls; rats philosophized from their holes.”
