Here -
Where...small cracked attic windows look down on worried waiting shadow..
Where...decaying plastic childhood lies perched on slopes of tall decaying tree..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
Where...the slow brickwork slivers of expectation collide with motored demolition..
Where...yesterdays comical events sit buried in vintage blue cement dust..
Where...repaired jigsaw roads wait for seasonal pacing and frosty morning..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
