Enter into a neighborhood high up on a hill, in the dead of a snowless winter. A road runs through, the asphalt cracked and worn. The hill slope is gentle on one side of it, and very steep on the other.
The houses are small, prefabricated things- a rectangular shape with metal panels, little boxes that look more suited for a factory neighborhood than the forest they sit in. The once pastel walls are grimy with age- subsidence and creep have driven some of the buildings to collapse downhill- the foundations are cracked, the windows are broken, and maybe one in ten looks like it could still be inhabited.
This neighborhood has a retrofuturistic look to it. One can imagine how it must have felt to move in, maybe in 1957, and walk down the street. Flowers would be blooming, difficult shade-tolerant ones that must have been hard to find, and it might have been so very loud, when someone had a new record to play.
Now, the wind knocks the branches of trees together, and it is the only sound.
Do you go UP THE ROAD?
Do you go INTO A HOUSE?
Do you go DOWN THE HILL?