Speaker 1: Think of a door, not just you know, any door,
but a heavy steel door at the end of a long,
otherwise completely unremarkable hallway. Now put a massive rusted padlock
on it, oh, sure, and drape a thick chain right
through the handle. And finally you slap a bright, glaring
red sign right at eye level that just says keep out,
do not enter.
Speaker 2: The classic warning sign exactly.
Speaker 1: And suddenly it does not matter what is behind any
of the other like one hundred open doors in that building, no,
not at all. That locked door is literally the only
one you care about.
Speaker 2: It becomes an obsession, right.
Speaker 1: What is it about a boundary?
Speaker 2: You know?
Speaker 1: About being explicitly told no? That just instantly weaponizes our curiosity.
Speaker 2: It's fascinating.
Speaker 1: I remember when I was younger, there was this massive
chain link fence at the edge of my neighborhood and
it was topped with barbed wire guarding this old, I
don't know, industrial lot.
Speaker 2: Yeah, every town has one of those, exactly.
Speaker 1: And I spent weeks just standing on the pedals of
my bike, scraping my knees, just trying to see over it.
Just get a gumps, right, And I had no idea
what was back there, but the sheer effort someone put
into keeping me away made it feel like the most
important secret in the world.
Speaker 2: Well, I mean, it's a textbook example of psychological reactors reactions. Yeah,
the moment our freedom to access information or physical space
is restricted, we experience this huge surge of motivational arousal,
like a pushback. Exactly. The brain interprets the restriction as
a threat to our autonomy, and the immediate hardwired response
is this intense drive to restore that freedom by just
breaching the barrier.
Speaker 1: I have to get in because you said I can't.
Speaker 2: Right. But when you scale that psychology up, when we
aren't just talking about a locked warehouse door, but entire islands,
oh wow, or sprawling subterranean labyrinths and modern cities sealed
off behind military blockades, the magnetic pull of that curiosity
magnifies exponentially.
Speaker 1: Right to the core of our discussion today.
Speaker 2: It certainly does.
Speaker 1: Welcome to thrilling Threads and to you listening right now.
We are so glad you're here. We have pulled together
an incredible stack of source materials for this one.
Speaker 2: Really amazing stuff. Historical records, structural engineering reports.
Speaker 1: Yeah, restricted area logs and these wild accounts from the
very edges of forbidden territories.
Speaker 2: The places people are absolutely not supposed to go.
Speaker 1: Exactly today, we are looking at ten of the world's
most terrifying, heavily restricted, and completely abandoned locations.
Speaker 2: Places where entry is just outright banned by law.
Speaker 1: Or physically impossible without courting death.
Speaker 2: Yeah, truly dangerous spots.
Speaker 1: But I want to make sure we do more than
just act like tourists peeking through a keyhole.
Speaker 2: Here, right, We need to dig deeper.
Speaker 1: Okay, let's unpack this. The true mission of this thrilling
Threads journey is to understand the mechanics of the eviction.
Speaker 2: The eviction I like that phrasing.
Speaker 1: Thanks. We're going to examine the exact forces, the geological betrayals,
the biological arms races, is the catastrophic human errors, the
things that forced humanity to just drop the keys and run.
Speaker 2: And that is really the perfect lens for this material. Yeah,
because you know, these forbidden zones are not merely empty spaces, right,
they're unintended time.
Speaker 1: Capsules and intended time capsules.
Speaker 2: Yeah. By erecting a fence and banning human entry for decades,
we inadvertently freeze a specific moment in human.
Speaker 1: History while simultaneously hitting the fast forward button on the
natural world.
Speaker 2: Exactly. These ten locations force us to confront a deeply
uncomfortable reality, which is the absolute fragility of human civilization.
I mean, we pour concrete, we engineer these colossal structures,
and we operate under the delusion that we have permanently
conquered a landscape.
Speaker 1: We think we own.
Speaker 2: It, right, but these restricted zones prove that we merely
hold a temporary lease.
Speaker 1: Wow, temporary lease.
Speaker 2: Once we step away, the earth just begins the relentless
mechanical process of taking it all back.
Speaker 1: That is a chilling way to frame it, but incredibly
accurate it really is. So let's look at what happens
when the landlord decides to terminate that lease.
Speaker 2: And sometimes that termination is shockingly violent and sudden.
Speaker 1: Yeah. So let's travel to Washington State in the US
to the Iron Goat Trail.
Speaker 2: A beautiful area.
Speaker 1: It is. If you pull up photos of this area
today or you hike the permitted sections, it looks like
a serene lush path cutting right through the stunning Cascade Mountains.
Speaker 2: It looks like a postcard.
Speaker 1: It really does. But this child trail passes right through
the site of the deadliest avalanche in United States history.
Speaker 2: The Wellington disaster of nineteen ten. Yeah, it is a
masterclass in the sheer kinetic energy of nature.
Speaker 1: The accounts of this are just suffocating. So in late
February of nineteen ten, you had two massive Great Northern
Railway trains.
Speaker 2: Right a passenger train and a mail train exactly.
Speaker 1: They were trapped on the tracks just west of Stephens Pass.
They were completely snowbound for days, just stuck there. Yes,
a passengers were stranded listening to these storms just rage outside.
And then on March first, a localized thunderstorm rolled right
over the mountain.
Speaker 2: A thunderstorm in the winter.
Speaker 1: Yeah, the lightning in the sudden temperature shift triggered a
massive slab avalanche.
Speaker 2: A literal wall of snow.
Speaker 1: A wall of snow essentially wiped the town to Wellington
and those two massive trains completely off the map, sweeping
them one hundred and fifty feet down into a gorge.
Speaker 2: Unbelievable.
Speaker 1: Ninety six people were killed. The source material notes they
were buried under forty feet of crushing snow.
Speaker 2: You know, to truly grasp this we have to stop
thinking of snow as the light, fluffy material we see
in holiday movies.
Speaker 1: Right, It's not powder, not at all.
Speaker 2: In an avalanche of this scale, the snow acts more
like wet concrete.
Speaker 1: Wow.
Speaker 2: Yeah. The kinetic energy generated by thousands of tons of
snow accelerating down a mountain slope creates intense.
Speaker 1: Friction, which causes it to melt.
Speaker 2: Exactly localized melting. And when it finally stops moving, it
instantly refreezes.
Speaker 1: Oh god, So those.
Speaker 2: Train cars, these massive, heavy miracles of early twentieth century
steel and iron engineering, they were treated like hollow aluminum
cam just crushed. Yeah. The forty feet of snow that
buried them was essentially a solid block of ice.
Speaker 1: That physical reality is just terrifying.
Speaker 2: It's unimaginable.
Speaker 1: But here is the part that fascinates me about the
site today. Remnants of those old railway tunnels, the concrete
snow sheds, and the tracks. They are still out there.
They are now. The open air trail is safe for hikers,
but entering those abandoned tunnels is strictly.
Speaker 2: Forbidden, very heavily restricted.
Speaker 1: Right. The authorities have sealed them off and strongly discouraged
anyone from attempting to bypass the barriers. The official reason
is severe structural instability. Right, But I mean you're telling
me a tunnel built into a solid mountain is still
an active collapse risk over a century after the avalanche.
Speaker 2: Yes, absolutely, shouldn't.
Speaker 1: The earth have settled by now? Like, why is still
so physically dangerous to step inside?
Speaker 2: It is actually becoming more dangerous as time.
Speaker 1: Wait?
Speaker 2: Really yeah, and it all comes down to the mechanics
of water and freeze thaw cycles. Okay, when the railway
abandoned those tunnels, they stop maintaining the drainage systems. Right,
makes sense, And the passcade mountains receive massive amounts of precipitation.
So for over a century, water has been seeping into
the microscopic cracks and the concrete and the surrounding rock.
Speaker 1: Oh, I see where this is going.
Speaker 2: During the winter, that water freezes and expands by about
nine percent.
Speaker 1: Which acts are like a wedge exactly.
Speaker 2: This exerts tremendous hydraulic pressure from the inside out, slowly
shattering the concrete and the stone.
Speaker 1: Wow.
Speaker 2: Furthermore, the massive timber supports used in the early nineteen
hundreds have been subjected to decades of damp.
Speaker 1: Rot so they're basically useless now, right.
Speaker 2: A structural engineer looking at those tunnels doesn't see solid rock.
They see a decaying, water logged house of cards that
could be brought down by a minor tremor or just
gravity finally winning out.
Speaker 1: Okay, that makes complete sense. It isn't just an old tunnel.
It is an active decay zone precisely. But there is
a psychological layer to this restriction too, isn't there?
Speaker 2: Oh? Absolutely.
Speaker 1: The source material highlights that hikers who walk near the
crash site frequently report strange echoes and unsettling sounds emanating
from the ruins.
Speaker 2: Yeah, the ghost stories.
Speaker 1: Right. It adds this deeply chilling, almost supernatural atmosphere to
the location. And I want to process this allow for
you and for me. I know tunnels Moan and Creek
because of the physical decay.
Speaker 2: You just described the physics of it.
Speaker 1: Sure, but there is a jarring contrast here. You are
on a bright, sunny hike and suddenly you were standing
on a mass grave. Yeah. Does the mere knowledge of
the nineteen ten tragedy fundamentally rewire how visitors perceive the
physical space?
Speaker 2: Absolutely. It is a phenomenon known as psychological priming.
Speaker 1: Priming.
Speaker 2: Yeah, human cognition is heavily influenced by context. If you
walk into a decaying tunnel, knowing nothing of its history,
a sudden groaning sound will likely be interpreted rationally.
Speaker 1: Like, oh, it's just wind or settling rock exactly.
Speaker 2: But when your brain is primed with the knowledge that
ninety six people experienced a violent and terrifying death precisely
where you are standing.
Speaker 1: Your whole prospective shift.
Speaker 2: Your sensory threshold shifts. You're amigdalais on high alert. You
subconsciously search for patterns or threats, interpreting acoustic anomalies like
the wind whistling through jagged debris, or water dripping in
a rhythmic pattern through the specific lens of trauma.
Speaker 1: That's wild.
Speaker 2: The sounds are physical, but the eer equality is entirely
manufactured by human historical memory.
Speaker 1: So the restriction is really twofold. It keeps you safe
from the collapsing roof, but the restriction itself acts as
a memorial, yes, a boundary demanding respect for the lives
lost precisely.
Speaker 2: What's fascinating here is that to treat the site as
a mere playground for urban exploration ignores the profound tragedy
embedded in the soil there.
Speaker 1: Absolutely, Now, nature's evictions aren't always a sudden, violent sweep.
Speaker 2: Like an avalanche, so sometimes they're agonizingly slow.
Speaker 1: Right, Sometimes the eviction notice is served inch by inch
over decades. So let's leave the snow of Washington and
travels to the sun baked hills of southern.
Speaker 2: Italy to the go city of Craco.
Speaker 1: Craco. It is a staggering monument to human perseverance.
Speaker 2: And ultimately human defeat.
Speaker 1: Yeah, visually it is just stunning. The source describes this
battered medieval settlement clinging desperately to the precipice of an
imposing rock.
Speaker 2: Formation, overlooking a valley.
Speaker 1: Right, and from a distance, the clustered stone houses in
the ancient Norman tower make it look like a timeless fortress.
Speaker 2: It looks like the set of a fantasy film.
Speaker 1: It really does. But the record show this wasn't abandoned
in the Middle Ages. Creco was a living, breathing, modern
community right up until the late twentieth century.
Speaker 2: People were going to work running bakeries.
Speaker 1: Yeah, living modern lives in this ancient shell and.
Speaker 2: This introduces the concept of the slow eviction.
Speaker 1: Okay, tell me about that.
Speaker 2: The original founders of Kreco built the city atop a
steep cliff in the eighth century.
Speaker 1: For defensive purposes high ground, right, if.
Speaker 2: You are trying to repel marauders, high ground is essential.
But geologically it was a catastrophic choice. Why the rock
formation is primarily composed of clay and sand hills, which
are highly susceptible to water saturation.
Speaker 1: Right. The accounts note that the town was plagued by landslides,
minor earthquakes, and fundamentally unstable terrain for its entire existence.
Speaker 2: Its entire existence.
Speaker 1: But the detail that blows my mind is how the
residents reacted. They didn't leave, No, they stayed for generations.
They just coexisted with the ground literally shifting beneath their feet.
Speaker 2: It's incredible.
Speaker 1: A wall would crack and they would patch it. A
street would buckle and they would pave over it. They
fought a war of attrition against the earth for hundreds
of years.
Speaker 2: Just absolute stubbornness.
Speaker 1: It wasn't until a series of severe landslides in the
nineteen sixties, followed by a massive earthquake in nineteen eighty
that the town was finally deemed entirely uninhabitable.
Speaker 2: And completely abandoned.
Speaker 1: It forces us to ask how much of nature's hostility
are we willing to absorb before we surrender our concept
of home.
Speaker 2: The psychology of the Krako residence is fascinating. We see
a similar cognitive dissonance today with communities rebuilding in floodplains
or known wildfire corridors.
Speaker 1: Right it happens all the time.
Speaker 2: There is a deep ancestral stubbornness attached to geography. People think,
my grandfather built this house, so I will buy more
mortar to fix the cracks.
Speaker 1: We just refuse to give up.
Speaker 2: But geology operates on a timeline of millions of years.
Human stubbornness operates in decades.
Speaker 1: Nature always has more time, exactly.
Speaker 2: Eventually, the structural integrity of the Clay Hills reached a
tipping point. The friction holding the town together simply failed.
Speaker 1: So today this gorgeous town is a total exclusion zone.
Heavy entry restrictions are in place. Very heavy Tourists can
view it from a safe distance, but entering the hollowed
out corridors is incredibly dangerous due to constantly falling.
Speaker 2: Masonry, and the looming threat of the entire cliff face
giving way.
Speaker 1: Yeah, the descriptions of the wind whistling through the broken
windows of the empty skyline just paint this picture of
an empty shell. It really feels like the Earth just behave,
like a giant dog slowly shrugging off a bad case
of fleas.
Speaker 2: That is an apt if somewhat humbling metaphor, the Earth
simply shrugged.
Speaker 1: Right. Well, let's pivot from the stubbornness of building on
crumbling cliffs to the absolute madness of trying to conquer
the ocean.
Speaker 2: Oh, this is a wild wak.
Speaker 1: We're heading off the coast of Oregon, USA to the Tillamook.
Speaker 2: Lighthouse, known to maritime history as Terrible Tilly.
Speaker 1: Nicknamed Terrible Tilly for very good reason. This structure stands
completely isolated on a jagged, rocky sea stack more than
a mile off shore in the Pacific Ocean.
Speaker 2: Just a rock sticking out of the sea.
Speaker 1: Yeah. It is constructed in eighteen eighty one, and the
accounts describe battered walls, a rusty tower, and darkened doorways.
Speaker 2: It endured relentless punishing.
Speaker 1: Storms, incredibly supply runs, and it witnessed numerous shipwrecks before
it was finally decommissioned in nineteen fifty seven.
Speaker 2: A long, brutal run.
Speaker 1: I look at the photos of this rock and I
just have to ask, how on earth did humans in
eighteen eighty one even build a stone pillar on a
wave battered rock a mile out at sea. It seems
logistically impossible.
Speaker 2: The engineering logistics of Tillamook are bordering on lunacy. Seriously,
just getting the surveyor Alexander Rolofsen onto the rock to
map it required him to leap from a violently pitching
boat onto a slick algae covered basalt precipice.
Speaker 1: Aw ways are crashing over it exactly.
Speaker 2: And then to build the foundation, crews had to use
dynamite to blast the top of the sea stack.
Speaker 1: Flat out in the ocean.
Speaker 2: Yes, they had to erect heavy timber derricks to hoist
giant blocks of stone off ships that were constantly being
thrown around by the Pacific swells.
Speaker 1: That sounds like a nightmare.
Speaker 2: The workers essentially lived in a wooden shack bolted to
the rock, terrified that a rogue wave would wash.
Speaker 1: Them into the sea, which almost.
Speaker 2: Happened several times during construction.
Speaker 1: It's an unbelievable testament to sheer human willpower, it really is.
But that willpower had a massive psychological cost for the
people's stationed there. Imagine being a lighthouse keeper on Terrible
Tilly in the winter.
Speaker 2: You couldn't tame me enough, right, You.
Speaker 1: Are trapped inside a stone cylinder. The ocean'swells are so
violent that the source material note storms would literally hurl
boulders into the glass lantern.
Speaker 2: Room over one hundred feet above sea level, boulders.
Speaker 1: One hundred feet up. You are deafened by the roar
of the ocean for weeks on end, completely isolated. The
name Terrible Tilly wasn't just about the weather. It was
about the psychological toll of being trapped in a sensory nightmare.
Speaker 2: Isolation of that magnitude begins to fray the edges of
human sanity.
Speaker 1: I can't even imagine.
Speaker 2: And remember, the keepers were tasked with maintaining a vital
navigational beacon to prevent mass casualty.
Speaker 1: Shipwrecks, so the pressure is immense.
Speaker 2: Exactly so, not only are they dealing with their own
survival in a terrifying environment, but they carry the immense
psychological burden of knowing that if they let the light
go out, sailors will.
Speaker 1: Die, which makes the second chapter of Tillmok's history so
bizarrely ironic.
Speaker 2: Oh, this is where it gets strange.
Speaker 1: After AZ commissioned in nineteen fifty seven, because it was
simply too expensive and dangerous to maintain, the source notes,
it was eventually purchased for fifty thousand.
Speaker 2: Dollars by a real estate broker named Mimi Morrissett and
her grand plan.
Speaker 1: She turned it into a columbarium.
Speaker 2: A repository for cremated human remains.
Speaker 1: Which she branded Eternity at Sea.
Speaker 2: The pivot from a life saving beacon, a structure designed
specifically to ward off death, into a literal monument for
the dead is one of the strangest repurposings of infrastructure
in modern history.
Speaker 1: It completely flips the script. But even Eternity at Sea
couldn't beat the Pacific Ocean.
Speaker 2: Now the ocean always wins.
Speaker 1: The logistics of delivering the urns were just as dangerous
as delivering lighthouse supplies. The project failed, the license was revoked,
and today the lighthouse is privately owned but off limits.
Speaker 2: It's just a death trap. Now.
Speaker 1: Yeah. The treacherous access conditions and the crumbling, rust eaten
infrastructure make it impossible to visit. It just sits out there,
battered by the waves, a haunting, lonely tomb off the coast.
Speaker 2: It perfectly illustrates our theme. We tried to plant a
flag on a hostile ocean rock. We failed to maintain it.
We tried to turn it into a graveyard, and we
failed at that too.
Speaker 1: The ocean ultimately reclaimed.
Speaker 2: Its territory without a doubt.
Speaker 1: So we have seen nature evict us with snow, landslides
and ocean waves. But the forces that enforce a restricted
zone aren't always massive kinetic elements of weather.
Speaker 2: No, Sometimes they are much much smaller.
Speaker 1: Sometimes the threat is microscopic. Sometimes it is biological, which
brings us to the quarantines of biology, venom, and myth.
Speaker 2: A fascinating shift.
Speaker 1: We are starting in an environment that couldn't be more
different from an isolated sea stack. We're heading right into
the heart of New York City, to North Brother Island.
Speaker 2: It is an anomaly, an uninhabited wilderness existing squarely within
one of the most densely populated urban centers.
Speaker 1: On the planet. The juxtaposition is what makes it so striking.
So for you listening, North Brother Island sits in the
East River, right between the Bronx and Rikers.
Speaker 2: Island, right in the middle of everything.
Speaker 1: Passing ferries and boats have a clear view of it.
Yet the source describes it as a place completely displaced
in time.
Speaker 2: It really is.
Speaker 1: It was originally the site of Riverside Hospital, established in
the late nineteenth century to quarantine patients suffering from highly
contagious diseases.
Speaker 2: Diseases like smallpox, tuberculosis, and typhus.
Speaker 1: This is the very island where the infamous typhoid Mary
Mallin was confined against her will for decades, a very
dark chapter. Later in the nineteen fifties, it transitioned into
a rehabilitation center for adolescent drug addicts, before being completely
abandoned in the nineteen sixties.
Speaker 2: You know, Riverside Hospital represents a very dark complex era
of public health house before antibiotics. The only way to
protect them matre propolis from a devastating outbreak was brute
force isolation.
Speaker 1: You just had to lock people away exactly.
Speaker 2: The island was chosen precisely because the treacherous currents of
the East River acted as a natural moat. It was
a prison designed by epidemiology.
Speaker 1: Wow, a prison designed by epidemiology, and that history makes
its current state so fascinating Today. All the massive brick pavilions,
the dormitories, and the coal houses.
Speaker 2: Are still there, but they are in a state of
profound advanced decay.
Speaker 1: And you are strictly forbidden from setting foot on the island.
The New York City Parks Department fiercely protects it, and
armed Coastguard boats patrol the waters.
Speaker 2: If you are caught trespassing, you face severe legal consequences.
Speaker 1: But here is where it gets really interesting. We aren't
kept out because the island is infectious anymore. We are
kept out because the island is now a protected sanctuary
for nesting.
Speaker 2: Birds, particularly the black crown night heron.
Speaker 1: Wait. So, by building a brutal isolation facility to lock
sick humans away from society, we accidentally engineered a perfectly
isolated twenty first century fortress for wildlife.
Speaker 2: That's exactly what I seed.
Speaker 1: That completely flips the definition of a quarantine.
Speaker 2: It is a remarkable paradigm shift and the physical mechanics
of how the wildlife took over are fascinating.
Speaker 1: I'd love to hear how that actually works well.
Speaker 2: Once the city shut off the power and the maintenance
crews left in nineteen sixty three, the island's environment went
to work on the architecture. Bird droppings carry seeds. Those
seeds land in the gutters of the brick buildings without
anyone to clean them. Saplings take roots right into the gutters. Yeah,
and the roots secrete mild acids that slowly dissolve the
mortar between the bricks. As the roots expand, they physically
pry the walls apart. Then vines like porcelain berry and
poison ivy blanketed the structures, trapping moisture against the wood framing,
which accelerates rot.
Speaker 1: So nature is just systematically dismantling the hospital.
Speaker 2: Within just a few decades, a multi story brick hospital
was structurally compromised by a forest.
Speaker 1: Descriptions talk about this eerie, absolute silence out there, broken
only by the shrieks of the birds and the wind
through the collapsed roofs.
Speaker 2: It's a surreal time capsule, it really is.
Speaker 1: You have the towering glass skyscrapers of Manhattan visible just
miles away right a testament to relentless human progress and
urban density.
Speaker 2: And right next to it, North Brother Island is actively moving.
Speaker 1: Backward, exactly reverting to the primordial ecosystem it was before
Henry Hudson ever sailed into the harbor. It proves that
nature doesn't need thousands of years to erase us, It
just needs a few decades of our absence.
Speaker 2: It is a humbling reminder for any city dweller. Our
concrete jungle is incredibly fragile if we stop maintaining the
illusion of control.
Speaker 1: Absolutely, But while the birds on North Brother Island are harmless,
our next biological quarantine zone is aggressively lethally hostile.
Speaker 2: Yes, yes it is.
Speaker 1: We are traveling off the coast of Brazil to Ila
da Camara Grande, universally known as Snake Island.
Speaker 2: This is a location or the restriction isn't just a
legal formality. It is a desperate matter of biological survival.
Speaker 1: The source material paints a picture of a breath takingly
beautiful place. It is a stunning splash of emerald green
vegetation sitting in the brilliant blue Atlantic Ocean.
Speaker 2: It looks like an idyllic, untouched tropical paradise.
Speaker 1: But it is one of the most heavily restricted, legally
off limits places on Earth. The Brazilian Navy strictly forbids
anyone from landing there without a complex web of special
clearances and.
Speaker 2: The mandatory presence of a doctor.
Speaker 1: Right. Why, because this tiny island is infested with roughly
four thousand golden lancehead vipers.
Speaker 2: The golden lancehead or bothorp's in Solaris is a phenomenal
case study in a biological process called insular evolution.
Speaker 1: Insular evolution, and the results of that evolution are terrifying.
Very The source notes that the venom of the golden
lancehead is up to five times more potent than its
mainland cousins.
Speaker 2: Five times.
Speaker 1: The account's really state that if you step onto the
rocky terrain and brush past the thick vegetation, you're essentially
guaranteeing a particularly painful death.
Speaker 2: It's no joke.
Speaker 1: I'm trying to wrap my head around the mechanism here.
Why does a snake on an isolated island need venom
that is five times stronger than normal? What is the
evolutionary advantage of biological overkill?
Speaker 2: Well, it is all about the available food source. At
the end of the last ice Age, rising sea levels
cut this island off from the mainland. The snakes that
were trapped there eventually ran out of ground dwelling rodents
to eat.
Speaker 1: Oh, because they ate.
Speaker 2: Them all exactly. Their only available prey became migratory birds
that used the island as a resting point.
Speaker 1: Ah.
Speaker 2: Now, think about the logistics of a snake hunting a bird.
Speaker 1: That sounds difficult, right.
Speaker 2: If a mainland snake bites a mouse, the mouse might
run ten feet die and the snake tracks it by scent. Sure,
But if a golden lance head bites a bird and
the venom takes a few minutes to work, the bird
takes off in a panic and dies two miles out
over the open.
Speaker 1: Ocean, and the snake starves.
Speaker 2: Exactly so they were trapped on an evolutionary treadmill. The
environment brutally selected for snakes with incredibly fast acting, highly
potent hematoxic venom ematoxic yes venom designed to rapidly destroy
tissue and coagulate blood, essentially dropping the bird out of
the sky almost instantly before it can fly away.
Speaker 1: That is horrifying.
Speaker 2: Generation after generation, the venom became a biological weapon of
mass destruction out of pure ecological necessity.
Speaker 1: It's like a real life serpentine Jurassic Park. I mean,
put yourself on a boat approaching that island for a second.
I'd rather not just imagine it. You are looking at
a lush, green canopy, but you know that beneath every
single fern, wrapped around every tree branch, is a hyper
evolved strike waiting to happen.
Speaker 2: The sheer density is terrifying too, one snake per square
meter in.
Speaker 1: Some areas an absolute nightmare. But the restriction placed by
the Brazilian government serves a brilliant dual purpose, doesn't.
Speaker 2: It It does. It is a two way quarantine, how so,
obviously it protects foolish tourists and curious bots from an agonizing,
screaming death. The venom is so potent it can literally
melt human flesh around the bite site.
Speaker 1: Yikes.
Speaker 2: But equally important, the restriction protects the snakes right because
they are confined entirely to this one tiny rock. The
golden lancehead is critically endangered.
Speaker 1: Oh wow, I didn't think about that.
Speaker 2: If humans brought an invasive disease, or if a careless
campfire sparked a massive brush fire, or if poachers arrived
to capture them for the illegal wildlife trade.
Speaker 1: The whole species is gone.
Speaker 2: The entire species could be wiped off the planet in
a matter of weeks. That do not enter sign is
an impenetrable shield for a highly vulnerable, albeit deadly population,
a two way quarantine.
Speaker 1: We protect ourselves from monsters, and we protect the monsters
from us exactly. But what happens when the threat keeping
people away isn't a physical viper you can see, but
a threat that is entirely unseen.
Speaker 2: A shift to the supernaw.
Speaker 1: Let's move from biology to the realm of myth and
head to Rajasthan, India to the Boar Fort.
Speaker 2: This is a remarkable intersection of architectural decay and cultural psychology.
Speaker 1: The Bangar Fort is a sprawling late sixteenth century ruined settlement.
The accounts describe magnificent, crumbling stone temples, marketplaces, and palace
walls that have been slowly overtaken by jungle vegetation.
Speaker 2: It's beautiful during the day.
Speaker 1: Yeah, during the day. It is a relatively popular tourist attraction.
But the moment the sun begins to set, the rules change.
Speaker 2: Drastically, the atmosphere completely shifts.
Speaker 1: The Archaeological Survey of India has erected a large sign
board explicitly and legally prohibiting anyone from entering or staying
within the fort boundaries between sunset and sunrise.
Speaker 2: A government mandated curfew on.
Speaker 1: A ruin exactly now. The official bureaucratic reason for this
nighttime ban is safety. The authorities maintained that the sixteenth
century structures are dangerously unstable.
Speaker 2: And there is no word of lighting right.
Speaker 1: Plus, the surrounding jungle is home to nocturnal predators like
leopards and tigers that frequently wander through the ruins.
Speaker 2: Very real physical dangers.
Speaker 1: But the source material highlights the powerful unofficial reason. Local
folklore insists the fort is deeply violently cursed.
Speaker 2: The legends surrounding Bongar are heavily ingrained in the regional culture.
Speaker 1: Tell me about the legend.
Speaker 2: The most prominent legend involves a dark magician who fell
in unrequited love with the princess of Bongar Okay. When
she thwarted his attempt to slip her a love potion,
he cursed the entire city to destruction and death.
Speaker 1: Just before he was killed, a classic curse.
Speaker 2: According to the folklore, a subsequent invasion wiped out the
population and their spirits remain trapped in the ruins.
Speaker 1: The accounts note that as daylight fades, the long shadows
stretching across the empty stone corridors create an atmosphere that
is palpably heavy, chilling, and deeply foreboding.
Speaker 2: People genuinely feel it.
Speaker 1: Locals claim that anyone who stays inside after dark is
never seen again. Now I have to look at the
mechanics of this from a modern perspective. Okay, you have
a government agency tasked with protecting a massive, sprawling heritage site.
Is the Archaeological Survey of India really just worried about
falling rocks and a stray leopard? Or have they weaponized
a ghost story?
Speaker 2: This raises an important question, doesn't it. It is an
incredibly shrewd pragmatic use of sociology. I mean, consider the
economics of managing a vast archaeological site. To properly secure
the perimeter of Bangar Fort at night against vandals, looters,
or thrill seeking urban explorers.
Speaker 1: It would cost a fortune, right.
Speaker 2: The government would have to install miles of fencing, floodlights,
and pay a small army of security guards to patrol
in the dark. That is immensely expensive.
Speaker 1: So what's the alternative?
Speaker 2: What is the most cost effective security system in the world.
A deeply ingrained, terrifying local legend, a metaphysical pad loss. Precisely,
the official hazards are completely legitimate. Stumbling through decaying unlit
ruins where a leopard might be resting is objectively a
terrible idea.
Speaker 1: Yeah, no arguments there.
Speaker 2: But a warning sign about unstable rocks will never deter
a rebellious teenager. A warning sign that implicitly validates a
century's old curse, however, taps into a primal fear of
the unseen.
Speaker 1: The folklore creates an atmosphere so oppressive and terrifying that
it acts as a self policing boundary.
Speaker 2: People stay out because their own imagination enforces the perimeter
far better than any human guard could.
Speaker 1: It is brilliant. The darkness itself becomes the barrier.
Speaker 2: It really does.
Speaker 1: And speaking of darkness and the unseen, that leads us
perfectly into our next section, the underworld.
Speaker 2: Oh this is a dark one.
Speaker 1: Literally, we are leaving the open air of India and
descending deep beneath the streets of France into the catacombs
of Paris.
Speaker 2: The catacombs are unique on this list because they exist
directly beneath a thriving modern metropolis. It's a shadow city.
Speaker 1: The contrast is mind bending. Up above, you have Paris,
the city of Light, the capital of ro romance, art
and bustling cafes.
Speaker 2: And right below, just.
Speaker 1: Below the pavement, lies a terrifying, unmapped labyrinth of tunnels
containing the skeletal remains of over six million people six
million bodies. The source notes that a tiny, sanitized portion
of these tunnels is open to the public as a museum.
You can buy a ticket and walk through a safely lit,
structurally supported.
Speaker 2: Area the tourist experience, But the.
Speaker 1: Vast majority of this subterranean network, nearly two hundred miles
of it, is heavily restricted. It is illegal to enter,
incredibly dangerous, and largely unmapped.
Speaker 2: To understand why it is so dangerous, we have to
look at why it exists in the first place.
Speaker 1: Right, I want to explore that history, because you don't
just accidentally bury six million people under a city. How
did this happen?
Speaker 2: It was a crisis of urban planning in the late
eighteenth century. Okay, Paris was growing rapidly and its cemeteries
were catastrophically overflowing catastrophically. Yes, the largest lais in Aissan
had been accepting bodies for centuries. It got to the
point where the ground was so saturated with human remains
that it was causing massive public health issues. The stench was.
Speaker 1: Unbearable, that's grim.
Speaker 2: The breaking point occurred in seventeen eighty following a period
of heavy spring rains. The earth in the cemetery became
completely water logged, and the sheer weight of the rotting
mass caused a retaining wall to burst.
Speaker 1: You're kidding.
Speaker 2: Thousands of decaying corpses literally spilled directly into the basements
of adjacent apartment buildings.
Speaker 1: That is unimaginable. It's a literal tidal wave of the dead.
Speaker 2: It was a horrifying wake up call. The city realized
they had to move the bodies, but where.
Speaker 1: Right, where do you put them?
Speaker 2: Well, centuries earlier, the stone used to build Paris had
been mined from limestone quarries deep beneath the.
Speaker 1: City, leaving all those empty tunnels, leaving.
Speaker 2: A massive network of empty structural voids. So under the
cover of night, over the course of decades, carts transported
the bones of millions of Parisians down into these abandoned quarries.
Speaker 1: That's incredibly resourceful.
Speaker 2: Honestly, they effectively use the empty space left from building
the city to store the citizens who had lived in it.
Speaker 1: And today those unmapped restricted sections are the domain of
a subculture known as cataphiles.
Speaker 2: The urban explorers.
Speaker 1: Yeah. The source accounts describe these individuals as explorers who
dedicate themselves to navigating the illegal pitch black maze.
Speaker 2: It's incredibly risky.
Speaker 1: They squeeze through impossibly tight claustrophobic passageways, wading through waste
deep freezing water. They risk massive fines, completely losing their
way in the dark, or being crushed by sudden ceiling collapses,
all for the thrill. The source describes the atmosphere down
there as absolute oppressive silence, broken only by the sound
of dripping water echoing off limestone.
Speaker 2: Pure sensory deprivation.
Speaker 1: Exactly to me. That sounds like pure sensory deprivation mixed
with a massive graveyard. Why do people do this? What
drives someone to risk a terrifying, suffocating death in the dark.
Speaker 2: It is a fascinating psychological drive to reclaim exploration. So
we live in an era where the surface of the
earth is entirely known. You can open an app on
your phone and look at a satellite image of almost
any street corner on the globe.
Speaker 1: There is no mystery left.
Speaker 2: Exactly, but the Pear's Catacombs represent a chaotic, unmapped frontier
hidden in plain sight. For a cataphile, navigating that absolute
darkness isn't just a cheap adrenaline rush. No, it is
a rejection of modern surveillance and predictability. When you are
one hundred feet underground with no cell service, relying entirely
on a headlamb and a hand drawn map passed down
through a secretive community.
Speaker 1: You are entirely self reliant.
Speaker 2: Yes, the physical dangers, the collapsing limestone roofs, the disorientation
are the necessary toll to access a world that society
has literally paved over and tried to forget.
Speaker 1: It's the ultimate rebellion against the maced world. They are
finding freedom in a claustrophobic tone.
Speaker 2: It's beautifully poetic in a dark way.
Speaker 1: But let's clim out of the dark back into the
sunlight and move into our final section, modern time capsules.
Speaker 2: Ah the recent evictions right.
Speaker 1: The places we have discussed so far were abandoned due
to ancient history, nature or biology, but these final locations
were evicted by modern geopolitics and atomic hubris. Let's start
with Varosia, located in Famagusta on the island of Cyprus.
Speaker 2: Varotia is a profound example of how instantly an entire
paradigm can be shattered.
Speaker 1: The before and after imagery here is absolutely staggering. Before
the summer of nineteen seventy four, Varosia wasn't just a town.
It was the crown jewel of the Mediterranean.
Speaker 2: A premier destination.
Speaker 1: It was a glamorous, thriving resort city packed with luxury
high rise hotels, vibrant beachside cafes, and high end boutiques.
It was the playground for the rich and famous. Celebrities
like Richard Burton of Brigitte Bardo vacation there.
Speaker 2: It was the place to be.
Speaker 1: But then an abrupt political crisis split the island.
Speaker 2: The complex geopolitical conflict right.
Speaker 1: The details of the geopolitical conflict are incredibly complex, and
obviously we aren't taking a stance on the politics themselves,
but the visceral result on the ground was immediate. The
entire population of Eroosia was forced to flee literally overnight.
Speaker 2: And following that sudden evacuation, the military drew a hard line.
Speaker 1: They sealed it off.
Speaker 2: A un buffer zone was established, and Varosia fell squarely
into an off limit's heavily guarded military exclusion zone.
Speaker 1: Because of the deeply sensitive political stalemate.
Speaker 2: Exactly, it was sealed behind barbed wire and oil drums,
completely inaccessible to the public. It became a paralyzed bargaining chip.
Speaker 1: And it stayed that way for decades. The source material
describes a result as a deeply unsettling ghost town completely
frozen in the year nineteen seventy four.
Speaker 2: A literal time capsule.
Speaker 1: The descriptions are haunting. You have modern multi story luxury
hotels slowly crumbling under the Mediterranean sun.
Speaker 2: The balconies are structurally failing, plummeting into the empty streets below.
Speaker 1: The winders are blown out by sea storms. And because
of the event vacuation was so sudden, it left behind
these hyper specific.
Speaker 2: Detail The everyday object.
Speaker 1: There are car dealerships in Votia with nineteen seventy four
model vehicles still sitting in the showroom windows, their tires
completely rotted away to the rims.
Speaker 2: Wow.
Speaker 1: There are clothing stores with Mannikins wearing nineteen seventies summer
fashion bleached white by decades of sunlight.
Speaker 2: It is the ultimate disruption of our expectation of permanence.
Speaker 1: What do you mean by that?
Speaker 2: Well, when humanity builds a luxury high rise, we construct
it with the arrogant assumption that it will stand and
be utilized for centuries. We view concrete as permanent, but
Varosia proves that human habitation is entirely conditional on political stability.
Without maintenance, the salty sea air acts as a corrosive agent.
Speaker 1: It rusts the metal, it rusts.
Speaker 2: The rebar inside the concrete, causing the buildings to essentially
explode from the inside out.
Speaker 1: And nature just takes over.
Speaker 2: Simultaneously. Nature ignores the military checkpoints, rare sea turtles, which
were previously driven away by two tourists, and bright lights
have returned to nest on the pristine, silent beaches.
Speaker 1: The conflict created an unintentional, heavily guarded nature preserve.
Speaker 2: It's deeply ironic.
Speaker 1: Only very recently, the sources note, have Turkish authorities opened
up small, heavily supervised portions of the main streets for
daytime visits. They mentioned music returning to Varotia a glimmer
of life, but the vast majority of the city remains
a rotting shell, a monument to an interrupted summer vacation.
And speaking of sudden catastrophic intereruptions, yes, let's move to
a place where the eviction was caused by a terrifying
combination of natural disaster and modern technology. Let's travel to
Japan to the Fukushima Exclusion Zone.
Speaker 2: Fukushima represents a collision between the immense kinetic power of
the Earth and the vulnerabilities of the atomic age.
Speaker 1: In March of twenty eleven, Japan was struck by a
devastating nine point zero magnitude earthquake, which in turn triggered
a massive tsunami.
Speaker 2: A devastating series of events, the wall.
Speaker 1: Of water slim and into the coast and completely overwhelmed
the sea walls protecting the Fukushima di each nuclear power.
Speaker 2: Plant, and that flooding destroyed the emergency generator.
Speaker 1: Right without power to run the cooling pumps. The plant
experienced catastrophic overheating, leading to massive meltdowns in reactors one, two,
and three.
Speaker 2: Overnight. A massive radius had to be evacuated.
Speaker 1: Thousands of people left their homes thinking they would be
back in a few days. They never returned.
Speaker 2: To understand the sheer terror of this event, we have
to look at the mechanics of a meltdown.
Speaker 1: Please explain it for us.
Speaker 2: When the backup diesel generators were flooded, the cooling water
stopped circulating around the nuclear.
Speaker 1: Fuel rods, right because there's no power exactly.
Speaker 2: Decay heat caused the water inside the reactor vessels to
boil off into steam, exposing the rods.
Speaker 1: That's bad very.
Speaker 2: The zirconium cladding on the fuel rods reacted with the
superheated steam to produce hydrogen.
Speaker 1: Gas, which is explosive.
Speaker 2: Highly explosive, which eventually caused massive chemical explosions, blowing the
roofs off the reactor buildings and spew doing radioactive isotopes
primarily caesium one thirty seven and idne one thirty one,
into the atmosphere and across the surrounding countryside, and.
Speaker 1: That invisible fallout completely redefine.
Speaker 2: The landslide, it poison the earth.
Speaker 1: The source material notes that while extensive, painstaking decontamination efforts
have allowed some specific towns to reopen over the last decade,
large swaths of the difficult to return zones remain strictly restricted.
Speaker 2: Entry requires special authorization, decimiters, and protective gear.
Speaker 1: But the visual descriptions of these zones are what make
it so uniquely eerie. Unlike the Iron Goat Trail where
you see crush trains, or Kroco where you see collapse buildings.
Speaker 2: The disaster at Fukushima is visually imperceptible exactly that is
the defining psychological horror of radiation. Human senses evolve to
detect physical threats. We can see a fire, we can
hear a predator, we can feel a collapsing building, but
we have.
Speaker 1: No sensory apparatus to detect ionizing radiation. The accounts describe
walking through these abandoned towns where the houses are perfectly intact,
the airloads clean, the sky is blue, the grass is green.
Speaker 2: It's completely normal.
Speaker 1: But inside the homes, personal belongings sit exactly where they
were dropped. The source specifically mentions calendars hanging on the walls,
literally frozen on March twenty eleven. There are bicycles leaning
against fences, coffee cups left on tables. It looks like
the rapture happened. The juxtaposition of a visually peaceful, intact
neighborhood with the knowledge that the very soil is fundamentally
invisibly hostile to human DNA is profoundly unsettling.
Speaker 2: The frozen calendar is the perfect symbol for Fukushima. Time
stopped for the humans, but the half life of the
isotopes continues ticking down.
Speaker 1: It's a sobering thought.
Speaker 2: Our most advanced vital energy technology, when compromised by an
unpredicted natural force, created a landscape we cannot safely occupy,
despite it looking like a perfect suburban neighborhood.
Speaker 1: And when we talk about atomic energy compromising a landscape,
all roads eventually lead to the most infamous abandoned area
in the world. Yes, the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.
Speaker 2: In Ukraine, the defining technological catastrophe of the twentieth century.
Speaker 1: The source material lays out the grim reality of April
nineteen eighty six. The operators at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power
Plant were running a test on reactor number four.
Speaker 2: To see if the turbines could still power the cooling
pumps while spinning down during a power failure.
Speaker 1: Right but, due to a combination of fundamentally flawed reactor
design and a series of disastrously violated safety protocols, the
reactor experienced massive power.
Speaker 2: Surges and the core exploded.
Speaker 1: Blowing the one thousand ton biological shield right off the
top of the reactor, exposing the burning graphite core directly
to the open air.
Speaker 2: The RBMK reactor design had a fatal flaw known as
a positive void coefficient.
Speaker 1: What does that mean in plain English?
Speaker 2: Essentially, as the cooling water turned to steam, the nuclear
reaction actually sped.
Speaker 1: Up, creating more heat, which creates more.
Speaker 2: Steam in an uncontrollable feedback loop. And when the operators
finally hit the emergency shutdown button, the design of the
control rods actually caused a massive instantaneous spike in reactivity, so.
Speaker 1: Hitting the brakes acted like the gas.
Speaker 2: Pedal exactly In a matter of seconds, the reactor simply
tore itself apart.
Speaker 1: The immediate area, including the entire city of Pripiat, just
a few miles away had to be completely evacuated.
Speaker 2: Pripiat was home to nearly fifty thousand people, and.
Speaker 1: Today, while guided tours are permitted on very strict specific routes,
massive sections of the one thousand square mile exclusion zone
remain heavily restricted.
Speaker 2: Due to lethal radiation, hot spots, contaminated dust, and incredibly unstable,
decaying structures.
Speaker 1: And we have to remember what Pripiat was before the explosion.
It wasn't just a town, It was a Soviet utopia.
Speaker 2: It was built specifically for the scientists and engineers working.
Speaker 1: At the plant. It had modern supermarkets, swimming pools, cultural centers,
and an amusement park. Is the absolute pinnacle of Soviet
community planning and technological pride.
Speaker 2: And now the accounts describe those same schools, hospitals, and
that iconic yellow ferris wheel in the amusement park standing
completely eerily frozen in time.
Speaker 1: But it isn't just standing still, it is being violently
reclaimed by nature. The source notes that full grown trees
have literally pushed their way up through the concrete floors
of hotel lobbies and schools. Incredible Geiger counters crackle constantly,
a clicking auditory reminder of the invisible danger lurking in
the moss and the soil.
Speaker 2: And the efforts to contain the original destroyed reactor started
with a hastily built concrete sarcophagus in nineteen eighty six, but.
Speaker 1: The source notes it eventually began leaking and structurally.
Speaker 2: Failing, requiring an entirely new, massive steel arch the new
safe confinement to be slid over it just a few
years ago.
Speaker 1: It is an ongoing multi generational battle to contain a
mistake made in nineteen eighty six.
Speaker 2: If we connect this to the bigger picture, when we
look at Vasia, Fukushima, and Chernobyl collectively, we are looking
at monuments to the sudden halt of human progress. Yes,
the source material explicitly refers to Chernobyl as a time
castle for the Soviet Union of nineteen eighty six, a
country that doesn't exist anymore.
Speaker 1: That is heavy.
Speaker 2: Think about the profound weight of that statement. The geopolitical
empire that built that city and that reactor completely collapsed,
but the radioactive isotopes they unleashed will persist in that
soil for tens of thousands of years.
Speaker 1: The hubris of the empire was outlasted by its own
toxic byproduct, and what's wild is what happened after we left.
The accounts highlight that the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone has ironically
become one of Europe's largest unintended wildlife sanctuary, booming with
life without humans there to hunt paved roads or cut
down trees. Populations of wolves, bears, lynx and Persowalski's horses
have absolutely exploded.
Speaker 2: They roam freely through the irradiated, decaying streets of Pripiat.
Speaker 1: It represents the ultimate triumph of nature. We split the atom,
we built a concrete utopia, and we made a catastrophic error,
and nature simply moved right back in, adapting to the
radiation that poisons us, completely ignoring our keepout signs.
Speaker 2: Nature is endlessly patient. It simply waits for us to
make a mistake, and then it reclaims the territory.
Speaker 1: So what does this all mean that brings us full
circle in this entire discussion.
Speaker 2: It's been quite a journey as.
Speaker 1: We synthesize everything we've explored today on thrilling threads, from
the deadly snow crushed tunnels of the Iron Goat Trail
to the slowly crumbling medieval cliffs of Krako.
Speaker 2: The wave battered, isolated madness of Tillamook Lighthouse, the.
Speaker 1: Overgrown hospital wards of North Brother Island, the venom filled
jungles of Snake Island, the haunted twilight of Bangar Fort.
Speaker 2: The pitch black labyrinth of the Paris Catacombs.
Speaker 1: The rotting nineteen seventies luxury of Erotia, and finally, the
atomic ghost towns of Fukushima and Chernobyl.
Speaker 2: The common thread binding all ten of these distinct, terrifying
locations is the boundary line itself of warning signs. Yes,
these are the physical and psychological borders where humanity's dominance
unequivocally ends and something much older, much stronger, or much
deadlier takes over.
Speaker 1: We draw mapps, we pave roads, and we claim permanent
ownership of the earth.
Speaker 2: But these restricted zones serve as a vital, humbling reminder
that our ownership is entirely conditional. We have guests here,
and we can be evicted at any moment by geology, biology,
or our own technological arrogance.
Speaker 1: Conditional ownership. It's a sobering reality check, it really is,
and it leaves me with one final provocative thought to
wrap up this journey. By putting up these do not
enter signs, by locking the gates and running away from
these spaces, we are essentially creating unintentional museums of our.
Speaker 2: Own hubris, unintentional museums.
Speaker 1: I love that these places, the irradiated forests, appropriate the
venomous canopy of Snake Island, the crumbling high rises of
Erotia they might actually outlast, are currently bustling, thriving cities, precisely.
Speaker 2: Because we aren't allowed inside them, to tear them down.
Speaker 1: Or redevelop or pave them over. Our absolute absence is
the only thing guaranteeing their preservation.
Speaker 2: It is a profound and deeply unsettling paradox. We preserve
the world best by being exiled from it.
Speaker 1: And that is exactly where we turn to you, our listener.
We want to hear where you stand after taking this
journey with us. Let's do a thought experiment.
Speaker 2: Oh, this is a good one.
Speaker 1: Imagine for a moment that you were handed a magical
one hundred percent guarantee of absolute physical safety and total
immunity to any legal consequences.
Speaker 2: You're invincible for an hour.
Speaker 1: Exactly which one of these ten forbidden places would you
choose to explore for a single hour and why? Would
you brave the absolute darkness of the catacombs to find
a hidden piece of Parisian history?
Speaker 2: Or would you stand in the center of Pripiat to
witness the Soviet time capsule?
Speaker 1: Or would you walk among the vipers on Snake Island
just to see an untouched ecosystem. Let us know what
you think about this discussion and leave your choice in
the comments below.
Speaker 2: Can't wait to read those.
Speaker 1: Thank you so much for joining us on this unraveling
of thrilling threads. Keep questioning the boundaries, respect that do
not enter signs, and we will see you on our
next journey.