The landscape of geige, sprawling and derelict, of pock-marked outlines lineated with age, bunkers and warehouses, hangars and Quonset huts, parade abandoned and forgotten in the passing of time. Like burlap and kraft upon emptying its contents, they sway vacuous in the silence that lulls the deep evening. I see their silhouettes crisp against the glow of lady la luna, veiled in the dank mists descendant from Siberia. They are my brethren, once titans that dotted the landscape of industry, of progress, of movement, now laid to waste by their inescapable oblivion. Barren, motionless, and timid against a time that refuses to look back, contemplative on their forsaken state, of various degrees of disarray, disrepair, squalor and destitute dereliction.
