Looking toward a void–formerly a hallway to the mineshaft–now a hole in the ground.
Trees between duplexes overshadow the buildings they were planted to shield; revenge for the boards on the windows.
Unintentional art comes in the form of a beet juice slurry baffle.
The old men’s ward is an example of what the hospital resembled before part of the complex was modernized. Small rooms, light switches outside the door, small observation windows set into heavy wood. If you ask me, though, the tile work across the floors is the most spectacular.
Lost words over the auditorium entrance.
The railing were jealous of both the bricks and bits, and chose instead to dissolve like this.
The incinerator’s hardened steel door… useless, but still sexy in a heavy-industrial kind of way.
Without a roof, the bricks were being washed away in the later years of the roundhouse.
The top floor of the apartment seemed so empty without the furniture that once adorned it. Instead, my eyes were drawn to the worn paths in the floor between the rooms.