Urban explorers came in tweed to photograph. Positioned dolls. Prams. Anything to make the decay seem more macabre. Although nothing could match the horrors of its past.

The spiralling of a staircase we weren’t allowed to climb. Skeletal exposed springs of a mattressless bed propped against a door. Padded. To soften our blow.

The focus on three words.
Words we thought but could never say.
Words we’d write if allowed pens.
Written in 1989 by a boy here to kiss a girl in the desertion.
Written in black.
In capitals.
Meant as a joke.
But rarely was there laughter here.


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