There is something about the empty rooms of places where we have lived, something felt never at the moment of arrival and always at the moment of departure. We have deposited pieces of ourselves— left a stain upon the floor in a corner or a nail hole in a wall. The closets gape back at us. The rooms look somehow betrayed. Their connection with death is too obvious. The presence felt in these places is only that of memory jotted down in hasty photographs taken by those who are departing and feel the need to honor a place they once took for granted. It is not the architecture that is significant here; it is the presence of absence. And so we move on.