A clicky-flippy clock is having some kind of malfunction.
Many outdoor areas of the plant have become unofficial city dumps. The skeleton doesn’t care.
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.
One of my favorite pictures of the tunnel. I am holding a bike rim and wearing a headlamp. My friend triggered the flash just behind my lower back. The fog is a temperature inversion at the entrance of the tunnel; it was 102 degrees outside of the tunnel and about 50 degrees inside, and humid.
The orange bars were secured to the tunnel walls to support electric lines for the mine carts. Lower parts of the sand mines were allowed to flood. The water was perfectly still, and made for a mud so thick it could suck off your boots.
Spring melt flows down the rusty rock house. In the background is the frame for the shaft.
In front of a rust-welded Illinois rotary stoker is where the boiler-men made their mark. The last year I can make out is 1985.
At noon, the lower skylights around the shops glow yellow-green, thanks to the flora blooming on the roof above.