“What’s that diamond thingy on the Pilot House?” you ask? It’s a 1920s-era radio transmission direction finder, a pre-radar navigation aid. Lit with diffused flash.
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The Arcade itself, a predecessor of the indoor mall. Don’t you love those arches?
Latin; to grow. Root of the English word ‘surge’.
Looking through the center of a scrapped generator, its copper long scrapped.
The old gate sign, leaned against one of the terminal elevators.
We people are so small.
Snow flies across the frame as the sunken cribbing freezes bellow the concrete.
In the mine offices, hooks and a board with numbers was the system to keep track of who was in the mine and who was safe.
From an unsteady perch atop the blast furnace, the morning light began to leach into the complex below.
The front door to the auditorium.