Todd Terwilliger

I don’t talk much about where I spend my days beyond that I am somewhere doing something. It will, for the moment at least, remain nameless. I will say however that it has gained a reputation over the past few months on par with the Death Star, minus the planet-busting capabilities but with the same budgetary concerns. I say all of this to prepare you for what I could not have been prepared to see this morning.

The fabric was ripped out of the deep darkness of dead space. It exuded a field of wild morbidity. This is the place where hope dies, from which the Mouth of Sauron will emerge to declare an end to the age of men. This was malevolent, malicious, orc handiwork.

There is a ginsu-knife-sharp wind that strikes down Greenwich street like the howl of a banshee. This protective tunnel could have, it should have, been a comfort. Yet, like the power of the one ring, any good purpose was instantly bent with baleful menace. Only a doomed, dead place would extrude tunnels painted mortician’s black, gangrenous black, and expect you to walk into them, bleak gates onto a dread realm. Only a fool would tread such a path.

And yet. And yet I took this photograph on my way out of the building. Oh what fool am I. Like Robert DeNiro in Ronin, if asked why I went in to begin with, I can only reply, “you know the reason.” Swing low, sweet economy…

(No Bothan Spies were harmed in the making of the blog post… that you know of.)

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