Bumper cars flipped and rusting staring out from cracked plastic eyes as the undying casted smile takes on an eerie cynicism. The grass grows high and luscious around disused amusement rides as if declaring that nature will once again engulf what man has left behind. A high wired prison-fence encloses the forgotten joy, trapping it out of reach. It’s almost like a museum of joy and happiness untouched and left to decay with cancerous rust.
Scribblings and Broken Glass 