An emotional collapse and a structural collapse are competing to see which one can make us cry more the frescoes still keep that aristocratic smile, but their colours have booked a one-way ticket to dust; the building, meanwhile, is on strike: beams falling, windows doing the wave, and a fireplace flapping its arms as if applauding the end of the party. You walk through corridors that whisper gala anecdotes and scandals politely erased by damp, while the villa puts on a free show of decay with a soundtrack of plaster thuds nature’s ovation included.
If nobility had an Instagram account, this would probably be it: decay filters, a pinch of melancholy, and plenty of practical sense for avoiding the balcony
