Here -
Where...sunny morning and night time shadow move among rusting steel underpass...
Where...oily shapes are squandered along collapsed kerbside shop front...
Where...twisted paths sheepishly carve a route across knocked out grass and broken bale...
Where...weather growls at footsteps and distant noise is ancient and honest...
Where...cracked window wired doorways smell of cheap red wine and restless sleep...
Where...stubs of paper shape tomorrows nightmare...
Where...dreams begin and life ends..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
