Here -
Where...vital instinct survives by kicking inflamed fragile nightmare..
Where...sad walled archive crowds day time sky..
Where...banked torn tree fence collapses on to wired market..
Where...nylon jumpered youth blankly congregate..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carelessly on stolen rusty spiked rod..
Where...blistered nickel punches into broken brick..
is the place language comes to die.
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
