industrial_abandonment crOwl breathing out the stench of cheap beer hands in pockets of thrift store pants the old man, retired from the mill whose smokestacks are now considered works of art lined up all in a row next to the new waterfront plaza of gourmet restaurants, fashion boutiques, bookstores, and video arcades, shuffles head down and smokes generic cigarettes and spits swearing at the voices in his head phantoms that steal the last traces of faded memory bits and pieces of the erased pictures of success he once formed on the chalkboard of his experiences when columns of smoke spewed so thick above factories that seemed to crawl the earth like iron insects and day was night inside out. 050319 what's it to you? who go blather from