When I think of Masons, I think of this:
Shadowy robe closets and giant auditoriums full of middle aged white men sitting in pews against the wall. Halls to be rented out, safely sanctioned off from the hidden twin staircases that bring those in the know to the rooms of power.
But when the humans leave, whether from suburban or earthly flight, the native objects take over and make it a home. Here we see a passive herd of tires, grazing on the fallen plaster. Family like, they cluster around the den mouth, never straying far from the group.
Lone pianos lurk in corners. Being solitary nocturnal creatures, they are quiet and sleepy, hiding from the light. But at night, they gather to hunt and mate raucously.
Skittish groups of dishware rattle away happily until they sense the vibrations in the floor of approaching predators, and then they freeze, play dead, trying to blend into the debris.
On the upper levels, migratory clothing perches, guarding their carefully constructed nests.
But the real natural wonder here are the chairs. This is where chairs come to be born, and later in life, where they come to spend their final days, in safe pastures.
Above, a baby chair gets it first legs.
A stately alpha chair standing watch over his resting pride.
A pregnant mother chair, preparing for birth.
The old alpha chair, dominated out of the pride, retires to the hallways, away from the territorial younger males.
Several female chairs, socializing before the evening graze.
And the basement, where the sick and infirm are taken in their final days, to rejoin the circle of life.
More pictures can be seen here.