It's Just A House Burning, But It's Not Haunted

Whenever I feel a bit restless I find the best cure to the heart to be automotive wanderings into the city. Taking these on occasion I have more less unintentionally developed a mental catalogue of moving architecture; for nothing else can snap the wandering mind into alertness as the beauty of a home graceful and well designed. Favoring the desolate, I love to pass by the abandoned homes of prestige that the city has left, perhaps for no other reason than the chance one might have taken up the unlikely task of restoring one. Finding quite the opposite, one such house that had truly impressed me before I found hulking about after being set afire. In such situations a kind of parallel state is created; with the house essentially segmented between the realities of its creation and grandeur, present misery, and eminent destruction, and obviously all that can be done is to capture the flickering remainder before its falls back to the earth. This then is my business; a photographer, a dealer of the vanishing. For what further action can one take but capture existence of creation for the enrichment of the created and celebration of the grace of living?