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Why I went in. Here’s the story: I have a fond deep appreciation for the generations, their fundamental

differences, and their uniqueness. The Generations are labeled as followed:

the Tradiontalists, X’s, Y’s, and the new Z’s. I fall in the Generation X category; as generalized we are strong, not detailed, cautious, and generally risk takers only when necessary. Generation Y, or called the Millennial Generation their beginning birth dates falls between 1982-1997. Generation Y, is fearless, incredibly resilient, innovative, and thrives on unbalance, if its not broken,

change it, but change it better than before. This Generation has seen a lot so far and is more than likely will witness more disastrous historical events.

I approached 93 on an incredible bright day in the early Spring. It was so sunny, I had on my extra dark sunglasses, wearing all black, carrying, two

camera bags, a tripod, two cameras, a cell phone, and a walkie talkie. I walked closer to the five kids, or Generation Y’s walking directly towards 93. They saw me immediately and stopped, they looked like they were caught. They appeared instantly nervous. I introduced myself as a photographer, and

asked them what they were doing. They asked me why would I want to take photographs of these old run down buildings. I said, because they are

fascinating and architecturally beautiful. The girl said, “Yes, because of all the graffiti.” I didn’t correct her, “I said yeah, something like that.” The boy said, “Are you coming up?” I said, “No, and for three reasons, 1. We will get

arrested. 2. We will go to jail, and get arrested. 3. I’m just plain chicken.” He said, “Security doesn’t bother with us, besides, their not interested in 93 right now.” I said, “I don’t know.” I was pondering more, imagining myself and the others being taken away. I girl was then tapping her feet on the ground,

looking around and then flipping out her phone from no where and checking random texts. He said, “Are you coming or what?” I said, “Yes.” I said,

“Listen, I have kids your ages, so I will be thinking of you as you go up-I will

not go all the way with you.” They all turned on queue, the four girls holding


hands as we all entered 93. That conversation lasted and introduction lasted about one minute and a half. Had they not been there, I would have never gone in, ever. I remember that I didn’t tell them to be careful on purpose,

because they would have not heard that. As I mention, I would be thinking of them and their safety, they really listened. I was a nervous wreck.

We immediately entered a hallway that was pitch black, in the height of the bright sun, we all started blinking feverishly before we quickly went up the first flight of stairs. They were making small talk, the boy in the front, the

four girls, and me in the back, heading our way up which seemed quicker than

before. I stopped on the 8th flight of stairs, the 4th floor, and said, buddy, I’m out - here. He said, Ok, they turned the corner to continue up, and I never

heard them go up. The silence in the building was deafening, I intently tried to listen for the kids, and heard absolutely nothing. The only sound was my footsteps crunching loudly through the halls.

I was scared to death, I was in the Hospital, I was in 93, and now I was alone.

The building stands prominently facing West intentionally, not facing the Long Island Sound, it is approximately 3 or 4 in the afternoon and the sun is

flooding the entire floor, so much that the floors and walls all seem lit up.

Every square inch is glowing. I can see the paint peeling and all the layers and colors of paint. I can’t stop blinking, my heart is racing. I see the rooms

where patients were locked up in small like cells, with only one small window on each heavy door. The view is spectacular and visually defeaning at the

same time. The view of the open blue water and CT beyond is a sign of hopebeyond the facing metal bars directly in front of you.

I turn the corner peer into a room feeling air blowing out, look in and begin to

cry. It is a Hospital bed with bedding and pillows still left, a privacy screen left in front the fabric torn gently blowing with the breeze through the broken

glass. I pause and look up and read the red graffiti above the bed, it says,

Sleep Forever. I don’t even reach for my camera to photograph that. It feels so wrong. Its not even a thought at this point. The feelings are strong, and I


feel slow, I am now sweating.

The photos I am now taking are breath taking, they are real, they are slow and

so am I. I walk slowly as I lose my way, peering around corners, blinking a lot. I find the stairs, head down slowly and see the door blocked off completely by

a pile of furniture and debris. When did that happen? Where am I? How did I go down a different stair? I go back up the same 8 flight of stairs and tossed

around, by the pattern of the rooms and the perfect floor plan. The feeling of being disoriented is hopeless as I am forced to stay in and go back up and not down. I reach another stairway, which appears to be the same one. I

head down faster, wondering if I choose the right one at all. I remember the door and recognize the way out, I

quickly get out breathing heavily, as a feeling of total freedom overcomes me. Its exhilarating.

93 with generation y