There is an old, wind-lashed bunker standing where the redwoods meet the rolling hills of Marin County, covered in marks left by hikers and graffers, overlooking the dusky sea like a sign of the end of times left at the end of the land.

The bunker is empty, save for litter and dead branches, and rests here at the top of a ridge, reminiscing its collapsed history, an odd trace of past fears enduring in the light of endless Californian sunsets.

The road below is sometimes lit by lone headlights, cars swifting by the winding road and into the darkness of the coastal mountains.

Bobcats can be heard growling in the night.

Tall weeds bow under the southern winds.

The whole place is fucking beautiful.