The sheer scale of the grandiose homes and elegance of their architecture spoke of immense wealth and style. Now dilapidated and crumbling, many bore large holes the size of a car through their exterior walls. Others it was apparent were the scene of a fire some five, ten, forty years prior. All that is left now are charred skeletons and blackened remains of their former selves. I felt like a foreign tourist exploring a new world, pointing and gawking. “Look at that house, no look at that house”. It was strange when we finally crossed eight mile back into Ferndale, to my neighborhood. It suddenly felt so different knowing what was just on the other side of the street. I nearly did not recognize it. I continued to point at houses, but now the pointing was accompanied with “That’s where Jessica lives” or “This is my old street” and it felt void of any real meaning or significance.
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