Wintertime is quiet, except for the planes overhead.
Iron becoming dirt becoming birches.
Gaskets still organized on nails beside the power plant. This used to be a maintenance room, but since its roof and walls were torn down, it’s not any kind of room.
Behind the small stage is a hallway signed by practically every act that walked through its doors. There’s also a pair of palms. Since all the heat in the building collects in this area, it did seem more tropical.
When you’re incoming’s piling up with paint chips, what’s one to do? Call in a sick?
The command building and a coolant tank. In the distance, rain and hail pound Wyoming dirt.