I watched from the top floor the active town below. A group of people were playing golf in a field adjacent to the hospital, another couple tossing a frisbee, as their dog ran just behind. The sounds of vehicles created a constant background buzz occasionally disrupted by the rumble of a motor cycle or screeching sirens of a speeding ambulance. The city sounds seemed to flow through the hospital, giving life to the otherwise empty rooms. Every once in a while, my presence would startle a pigeon half to death and I would watch as the bird jet out an open window and it's panic shed feathers slowly glided down to the bare hospital floor.

I was taken back by just how clean and empty the hospital was. Long decay-less hallways led to small rooms usually containing an old bed frame and mattress. Hideous 1970's blinds and yellow walls were all too common in the dozens of carbon copy rooms. Periodically the monotony was broken by the sight of an overflowing linen closet or misplaced artifact from generations past. It wasn't until I reached the basement that I was able to find the last bit of life contained in the hospital. In a small back room a mural depicting a nature scene was slowly peeling from the wall it called home. The door to the right was painted with the words "Art Jam", perhaps a hint at its forgotten purpose. I always love finding personal paintings and murals because amongst the crackling and chipping paint there is always a story to be told.