One first notices the loneliness. There is a certain longing in the walls that seems to speak for it. Deprived of even the smallest picture frame, they stand, somber, as if remembering some past happiness. There is dust and the occasional stain, but the most evident damage is done by the emptiness.

Its merciless invasion left an echo trapped inside, forced to repeat any uttered word or sound, each time more softly than the last until it's completely gone. Presently, the introduction to "Dulce Locura" bounces lightly off the walls. The spiderweb of piano notes traps nostalgia in its cadence as easily as the walls trap it in their exposed wiring.

There is no door in this room. There is only a large space amidst the wall where one will be. For now, the only semblance of a door comes from pieces of wood, that like bones, form the visible structure on which the door will sit.

Close by the entrance are two large mirrors that were once the sliding doors of a closet, but were taken off and put in a corner, useless for now. If the wood framing the entrance is the bones of this room, then these mirrors are its heart. Unwillingly, they give the illusion of depth and space to an already painfully spacious room, which now echoes "Mi Vida Sin Ti."


On the wall opposite the entrance is a window which lets in the only light in the room, since the window on the side is blocked by closed blinds. The light falls on certain parts of the wall and pieces of kitchen cabinets left over from when they were torn off. They leave a brooding shadow that only adds to the despair.

The same light that casts shadows and contrasts black from white hides the fine layer of dust that has settled on everything. Though it can not be seen, the dust is like air: it can be felt - especially when walking barefoot.

Abandoned and uninhabited for now, the pleading room begs for life as surely as the desert begs for water. And though complete with bones and heart, this room will not gain the fullness of a soul until it is restored and lived in again.