Seven Days

... was all she wrote.

Actually, no. But it's been seven days and my ankle is still busted. A week ago today I committed the Most Heinous of Stupid Crimes - twisting/spraining my ankle 4 hours before an abandonment. NO there was no alcohol involved. NO there isn't even a cool story behind it. So I spent the week telling people I injured myself climbing the fence the next morning, which is my dirty little secret (less a secret now, but I'm honest like that).
What's the story behind the Cherry Hill power plant? It was truly a tough nut to crack. But it was beautiful. Peaceful. Serene. Safe. A literal time capsule and uncharted territory. Normally I tend to want to be at least within sight range of another person for safety reasons, but here I almost wished the place was bigger so I could get lost on my own. Never before have I achieved that level of zen and focus in a building. Even the stifling heat of the Maryland summer didn't bother me, whereas the previous week at the brewery I almost went mad suffocating behind my mask.

Little tiny bird corpses were scattered throughout the top floors amongst the plaster and bone dust. It spoke volumes to me that these were left undisturbed. For one, there are few predators (like raccoons) that bother coming in here. Secondly, the team of alley cats that lives outside obviously get fed by some kindhearted human being, rendering their hunting skills obsolete. Steve found some sort of mummified mammal in a side room (next to a trap door of course). At first glance it could have been a cat. On closer inspection I think it was some kind of Weird Big-Headed Space Mutant Dog With Chicken Legs™. Given the pollution around here, that wouldn't be too far-fetched.

Would I go back? Certainly. But I probably won't.

And because of this stupid ankle I don't think I'm really doing much of anything for a while.