Nestled behind the waters of a lively swamp, masked by tall grasses and curvy trees, sits a lonely house. The many sounds of the active marsh outside, in a way seem to taunt the empty and depressed abode. As I walked through the desolate rooms, I felt a sense of loneliness, like something was missing. The house seemed to silently scream out for attention, its hollow decay-less rooms, just aching for life.

In the main living room, a shapely staircase resides, its feminine curves stretching up to the second floor above. A trio of rooms upstairs contain a selection of children's toys scattered about the floor. From these artifacts, it was clear that two young children once called this structure home, but no longer was that the case. It was almost as if the house was upset by the departure of its past residence; as the continuous aura of sadness lingered throughout the home. At the basement level, the house was slowly being drowned by the advancing waters of the neighboring swamp. But perhaps this is a good thing, for a house without love, is a lonely house indeed.