Rotten, crumbling, exposed. This is a harsh environment - thorny, dirty, smelly: the canals of Bow. Wanderers come here, like explorers.
There's a natural pace to the ruin, no sense of expectation.
It's been a pleasure to watch the decay, to watch time take it's sodden toll.
Tunnels and dark places. The lack of safety or concern is liberating.
People leave things here, knowing they won't be disturbed. A cemetary or lostorium.
Old paths tramped to oblivion by feet determined to move. Escape from the fantasies of the living.
Signs that may or may not be read, that may or may not even ever be seen.
No-one will miss it, no-one will remember what a horror it was. Something, however, will be gone for good.
Washed away by the tide.
