Cold Storage

I spent the late morning wandering the labyrinthine interior of this city's superannuated ice rink.

Like the set for 'Night of the Living Dead - On Ice' it is pretty much the saddest series of rooms I've seen anywhere.

Huge fungal blooms spreading rampant over the roofs and walls. Sagging, spongy, fleshy floors. The poky stench of rancid chip fat in the abandoned cafe.

At its heart a large, blue cylinder sheathed in crusty ice wheezing, groaning resonantly and bathed in a fug of fugitive freon.

This is what happens to things when every year is 1980.