A breeze twists its way through a missing window, and silently manipulates the many dangling pieces of a burnt out ward.
Rusted tin tiles sway gently as they just barely cling to scorched timbers - the last remnants of what were, at one time, the ceiling of a third floor corridor.
Gazing skyward, out the massive hole where once a roof stood, the surreally blue skies of mid-summer stare back, only occasionally obstructed by
the white clouds which slowly waft past. Here there is no differentiating between what is inside, and what is out. The two have become one through
flames, the end result of a 2007 lightning strike. Beyond the red brick walls, a family of deer graze in the tall grass that has come to overtake an
old parking lot. Past them, and over the sad remains of a chain-link fence, the spires of the administration building peek over the treetops.
The overgrown walls of this asylum have stood for ages now, dating to when the facility first opened to the public – in the autumn of 1871.
Unlike any other government-run institution of its time, the architecture found here was heavily influenced by Victorian Gothic styling.
Though undeniably beautiful in its prime, seeing such an imposing form humbly receding into the forest is all but impossible to convey in written word.
There is always a tranquil beauty to be found in a place long forgotten by the world, and the gentle way in which it returns to the earth.
Here though, there seems to be something more at work. As if just below the surface there is an impossibly intricate dance slowly taking place
between the old asylum and the world around it. Both moving in perfect sync with one-another, beheld by an audience of nothing.
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