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  • It is so quiet. We hop a fence and follow a narrow path of grass -- rock wall on one side, a drop towards the riverbed on the other. We reach the factory, an imposing, enormous building, with smaller structures around it. This one catches my eye, the way its gaping eyes study the scene from the sidelines. Something happened here once -- things were run or built or stored -- but now it stands still by a silent river, purposeless and broken. Behind it, the clouds toil.

    A security guard making his rounds tells us to leave. He's riding a bicycle and looks seventeen. "You shouldn't be here," he says, walking us out. Logs bob in the brown river. "Bad stuff happens here."
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