The stark rusting lines wedge against the walls and the skies. Even the serrated shadows have to hide.

The rusted metal grips the teal walls, clamps them down and spreads like a parasite. Age is inescapable. The scars are permanent. Nobody will rebuild this place. Nobody will paint it anew. The only path to freedom is disintegration.

The barbs curl and strike, weighing down the lower right of the composition. A structure of white steps pulls you to the top.

As I stared into the open air, gnarled metal caught me in its grip and trapped me in its contrast. Reckless.

In a stark display of recklessness, I looked up at the sky and saw a prison of form.

A reflection of our tensions in an urban environment, a sideways glance into illusion.

All natural shots, no Photoshop involved. The abstraction of ascension.