Sometimes the best things in life are free,
they just got fences and barbed wire around 'em.
Coming from the Mid-West, I’m in the heartland for cavernous factories, breaking into one is like going to my grandfather’s real grave, not some simple stone marker in the poor workers corner of the cemetary. Old conveyor belts rotting in quiet dignity, giant coal burning furnaces cold forever. I imagine the place alive again, noisy with moving men and machines, the days speeding by with mind-numbing repetition, punctuated by cigarette breaks and the five o’clock whistle. Wonder if any of the people that worked there are still alive? -K.M.
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