With urban exploration, you often find yourself within a structure that was once booming with activity. Warehouses, office buildings, or factories that, in the past, housed hundreds of employees. At one point, life existed within the brick and concrete quarters in which you stand.
It's sometimes hard to connect with those lives, due to the vast emptiness that surrounds you. Barren fields of lonesome, gray cement, containing no signage, no trash, and no time. Did humans genuinely occupy this premises?
Last week I was lucky enough to have a different encounter:
There was life here. Although primarily colorless due it's winter slumber, it was trying, and it was very apparent that in this case, nature had won.
To explain the expansiveness of this "green" house is difficult to do. Although small in appearance from the outside, the corridors of the vaulted, glass ceilings never seemed to stop. The sprinkler systems, prep tables, and hundreds of rows of flower benches were all still intact, many with successions of planters lined up further than I could see. Each office, closet, and even the copy room were practically untouched, with only trace amounts of your expected, bored-suburban-kid graffiti.
"He took the remaining bouquet of flowers from the cooler and hung his yellow freezer coat on it's hook. The bouquet, for his wife. He grabbed his last, few, desktop belongings, and with that, Jim Norris turned off the lights, headed for the door, and punched the clock for the final time.
Later that week, shortly after ten in the morning, the greenhouse, to which Jim had dedicated his life, took it's final, heaving breath of electricity and sat quiet, lifeless once and for all." - Jason Unoriginal
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