Without proper pressure, the steering engine was ineffective.
Everything is texture.
Rubber dock boots still sits under the desk in the dock office, near keys to rusted locks and files of fired employees.
The end of one of the scrapped turbines. Judging by the aborted attempt at cutting it in half, the scrappers had some trouble with this one.
A high-ceilinged room where kegs would be delivered for cleaning, before they were refilled with fresh booze.
The top floor’s old-fashioned hospital ways were too much to pass without a photo or two… with the paint falling off the walls it was as if the building was shedding its skin in an effort to become rejuvenated or useful.
The end of the monorail in the nitrating house.
From Main Street, looking straight up at the A Mill, only the silence makes one think that nobody’s still inside, grinding grain into Pillsbury’s Best.
Without a roof, the bricks were being washed away in the later years of the roundhouse.