Over the years, you become an accidental conglomeration composed of every personal interaction, every story you've told and have been told, and give some tangible connection to the infinite loose threads that every soul, every place, and every idea holds. You take these experiences and keep them, like little gifts, little secrets, that can surprise and resurface years later. This occurrence has not been a stranger in my personal life, with many stories, films, and off-hand conversations suddenly finding themselves boldly relevant in the contemporary.
One of the most recent iterations of this involves a piece of local lore, a portion of land in New York, and a documentary bearing an ending that inspired a sense of awe, curiosity, and existential discomfort, even long after the credits rolled. This film is Cropsey, and we found the since maintained, decaying grounds and hospital buildings in which the namesake of the documentary was said to (and perhaps, did) stalk, dwell, and hide his victims.