Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows. Passport checked and through the gates. You have come to pick me up at the local airport. You have been waiting for an hour, maybe two. You never minded waiting and though I haven't seen you in around a year, maybe more, the first thing I notice is that you still seem to not mind. Does waiting give you the feeling that you're doing something? That you're busy. Busy without having to do anything. That sounds like me not you. It's not that you like waiting, it's that you don't mind, which is different. You could have made that into a job, waiting in line. You could have waited for movies or concerts other people would see. Waited for stuff other people wanted to buy. You didn't. Your not minding seems harmless but isn't. I've been hugged and now I'm being driven by you to your village. You take the top off the car which wasn't a bad idea even though we are late October because the air inside the car smelt old. You drive us into your village. Through it's doors. The village has two of these. A North door and a South door. The village is also surrounded on all four sides by a moat. You moved there recently; to this village, built for the sake of a castle that sits just outside the village walls. The castle also has a moat. Everything remains as it was; the village walls, the two moats and the streets - only long ago the castle was dismantled stone by stone and now it's a ghost. It's a place structured around an absence. You drive me to your street and stop in front of the home you had built. It's almost finished; missing just a bit of plaster here and there. It looks like you. There is a house somewhere that looks like Hitler. I saw it online. I walk inside and notice moths have been poking new holes in your old coats and in the piles of hats in the entrance. Hats that make you feel like a Humphrey-Bogart-like figure. Later I read an article online about how we can take steps to “stop fetishising growth”. Do I fetishise growth? Your home is full of the past, a real and a fictional past. Furniture, carpets, clothes, plates, pictures (some of me and some of old movie stars you signed to yourself as if from them) and lots of books. Is it any better to fetishise the past, real or otherwise? In with your books, your mothers book, my grandmothers book. She wrote two. Or one. But published twice with different titles. The first was published in German in 1936. You don't have it because most copies were burnt. However now, you can buy a copy on Ebay; the original German or a Polish translation. You don't know that and I never told you. The Polish edition has an illustration of a building on the cover. Probably the Beautiful Sun Hotel of it's title. The second book - or maybe just the translation of the only book was written in French and published in 1937. This book is the story of a woman from Vienna who had run away to Berlin and now we find her in her 20's arriving in Paris in the late 30's. Online I found that the book recently featured in a show in a bookshop in Vienna on “the theme of hotels in Austrian literature”. Arrested decay is a term coined by the State of California to explain how it preserves one of it's State Parks that I visited ten years ago. The term arrested decay is also used for war ruins kept as memorials. Your home may be new but is in arrested decay. It's mouldy with other peoples stories, but mould lives and grows.