The ones left untouched.
Allowed to fade like blooms past their prime. Something in their textured, glorious weariness speaks to the human condition. And that which is beautiful, is somehow enriched by age instead of depleted.
They tell us so much about the life that has unfolded within them. Read quietly and slowly, they are as dense as the pages of a book, allowing us to see the people who have inhabited them for so long.