The municipal wastelands of Horsingdon are dotted with squat, concrete monoliths. One never encounters these structures in any of the region's metropolitan hubs - they are only ever affixed to those zones of derelict, suburban liminality which edge on to the borough's rural topography, and where almost no one lives.
New monoliths appear periodically: of a variety of shapes and sizes, but nonetheless so monotonously uniform in their worn and everyday concrete stolidity that they blend into the built environment almost seamlessly. But no one ever speaks about why they are built.
It is almost certain, however, that these edifices are constructed to seal up and hide away within concrete those things which occasionally seep out into the Horsingdon landscape. Things which no human eye should countenance.
Thus they are prisons both literally and conceptually: confining from sight that which should not be seen, concurrently excluding from thought any reminder that beyond the pedestrian boundaries of Horsingdon life lurk monstrous realms beyond measure and without number.
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