There is something beautiful and intriguing to me about ruins. In really every sense of the word, too. Physical ruins are the most obvious. Monolithic tributes to a deceased kingdom or civilization, begging to be discovered. I wonder what secrets they hide, what clues they leave about their creators. Or the ruin of a person. An aged, forgotten starlet, her fame and fortune gone. I wonder what secrets she hides, what stories she could tell. The roles she played, the men she romanced, the ruins of men she met on her road. Ruins built on top of ruins. Raising yourself up on the fallen, only to fall and become the stepping stone for the next, to be discovered, marveled at, mocked. A statue, all but destroyed, of a man who fancied himself a god. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.