Comments

I guess machinery must have been attached to those chutes. I would love to have seen that checkerboard floor cleaned up

Looks a bit dangerous in that corner and kind of creepy

Interesting and a bit depressing

Very nice and so Clean!

Great shot of clean decay

Looks very clean considering all the decay

Nice to see another gallery! This palce looks so barren and creapy

Merry Christmas Caroline and to all!

Yes caroline I would like to know what she says. Ive been curious about that myself

you just cant get away from grafitti, its everywhere

It is kind of strange that they only put the blue around the sink. They should have painted the whole room blue

It looks better outside than inside, I hope to gp to Fl late in Feb, how can we meet Debbie?

Wow, its been a while since ive gotten on here, ever check out that school in jacksonville, fl motts? Lol

the un named cemetery has a name. its called potters field. theres two parts one on the side of the quad .. sort of and it was also under where the new kings park highschool football field is. they found bones when they were building it. so weird how a town can just try to coverup dead bodies and secrets the way kings park has. nice town yes but i dont think i would want to live there.

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.