An old stoker in a power plant that was abandoned long before the mill next to it, by all indications. Sugar mills burned dry beet pulp pellets for fuel.
It was interesting that, even though storms had carried the wooden walkway that stretched under the dock, these piles of spilled taconite remain where they had dropped.
Hand painted fire extinguisher notices and a long room which I strongly suspect was a pattern cutting room.
Some of the internal staircases were fitted with cages that wound round down the stairs to deter suicidal patients from taking a dive.
At the top of the elevator was a distribution room to direct the grain onto conveyor belts below.
The shaft house, where hydraulic steel doors allowed or denied entry into the mine shaft. Overhead is a light and alarm. If it sounds, the mine is being evacuated, and you best not go in and best stay the hell out of the way. Locals dump tires here, now.
Postcards and snapshots in a high elevator office.
This seems to be the space where upholstery patterns would be drafted. On the table were half-finished notes on a new design.
And I forget just why I taste / Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile / I found it hard, it’s hard to find / Oh well, whatever, never mind (Nirvana, “Smells Like Teen Spirit”)