Where workers’ pay would be doled out and collected.
The power gauge showed… broken.
Every fitting label in the stock department was cracked, curled, and blank.
Above my head while taking this picture was the seal of the Department of the Interior.
Only two machines sit on the rails in the roundhouse, both oil cars. It’s not clear whether there’s anything inside either, but they have to have been placed here before 1970, when the turntable outside these numbered doors was removed.
This is the far interior of the hotel, where the darkness made the shag carpet seem to move whenever the trees outside swayed. That is to say, constantly.
Dora, the pagan god of urban explorers, stood little chance off Alfred Street.
The basement held a makeshift chapel.
The end of the new elevator. Line of bird droppings follow the fire sprinkler pipes and wires in the room.