These golden times shall pass

Late adolescence into early adulthood; when everything still feels infinite; walking abandoned yards, sitting on the pier as the sea turns silver, climbing quarry walls, parties in crumbling barns with fairy lights and cheap speakers. The illusion of being young and convinced nothing will ever change.

This is a love letter to that illusion, and a quiet acknowledgement that it’s already slipping. The spaces we claimed as ours, soon won’t be ours anymore. Some of us will move away, some will stay. Barns will be converted, quarries fenced off, and the version of ourselves that ran wild in these places will become photographs on a hard drive.

This is not just nostalgia; it’s evidence. Proof that we were here, and that we made the most while it lasted.

From the North of England. These golden times will pass. This is what they looked like.

Work in progress