Filthy Majestic

There is a house nearby. An old house with no roof on a steep green hill, surrounded by trees. Some of those trees are growing from inside the house - branches stretching out through the broken windows.


They shouldn't rebuild it, and they certainly shouldn't knock it down. They should keep it there for me to look at. I've even set a future book there. I need it.
It is a former hospital (mental, I've decided) which was gutted by fire seven years ago.

I hear it's going to be transformed into flats, so it'll still be there, but it won't be the same. No more boarded up windows, no more broken glass, no more trees in the living room and no more ghosts, lost amnesiacs or escaped criminals hiding within its crumbling walls. I wouldn't want to be forced to use my imagination.