It has a fence to guard from vandals.
This is a graveyard where artists go to die, put themselves out to pasture.
Their scrawls are found on the walls of factories where life used to exist.

A sick joke for an art form that has always been the quintessential expression of forgotten youth who simply said: We’re still here.

And now that building is a graveyard.
It has high fences to protect its residents from vandals.
This is where graffiti artists go to die.

And all that remains of this final conquest are photos that no one will ever see.