Yeah, once I hit a dead‑end on a rain‑slick road, turned left, and found myself in an abandoned underground train station. Concrete walls layered with graffiti, old rusted railcars, and the faint echo of a distant train—every inch of that place felt like a living canvas. The smell of damp stone, the flicker of old neon, the way light pooled on the cracked platform; it’s the kind of raw, unexpected space that flips your brain into overdrive and your sketchbook into a battlefield of colors. That spot still lives in my mind as a reminder that the best art sometimes starts in the shadows.