We didn’t plan this stop. But the building spoke.

After a sleepless night strung between a tent and a soggy hammock, we left before the sun finished rising. Not heroic. Just cold, damp, and done. We hit the road craving fire — and settled for a spicy McDonald’s breakfast sandwich. It promised heat. Delivered... disappointment. That’s when the real hunger kicked in — not for food, but for something real.

We kept driving. Direction: Albany. Purpose: unclear. Then out of nowhere, a structure appeared — like it had been waiting.



Red brick, half-collapsed. A long industrial shell swallowed by vines and rot. We didn’t plan this stop. We felt it.

We got out. No words. The silence inside was loud.

The place was massive — a cathedral of decay. Steel beams overhead like ribs, graffiti crawling across every wall like it had grown there. Names, messages, creatures. Rage. Joy. Memory. Protest. Chaos. It wasn’t abandoned. It was broadcasting.

Some sections had given up completely — roofs caved in, earth reclaiming the floor. Others held strong, lit by broken skylights and streaks of green from the outside world creeping in. Every surface was talking. Whispering. Screaming.

We didn’t rush. We listened.
To the sound of glass beneath our feet.
To the feeling of entering a space that wanted to be found.

This wasn’t a detour. It was a signal. The first real one of the trip.

We came in looking for caffeine.
We left marked by a building that refused to die.