In the introduction to his novel, "Birdy," William Wharton offered the following poem:

"There are bird tracks
And nothing in the sky
Something lived, left
And left something"

That speaks to what I find fascinating about these storefronts, aglow as if ready to fling open their doors to commerce, but closed, locked, and still. Rest, repose, sometimes, in the case of the old empty Woolworths I used to peek into, dead.

Think of your desk, or your garage, or someplace untidy with the folderol of life, and imagine you never return to it again (let's not be maudlin -- you moved, you retired, you stepped out to get a giant Paula's Donut, you are creating new bird tracks on another beach somewhere). What would someone coming on the scene think? What story is being told about you in the universal language of stuff?