I don't think I'm alone in looking up at certain buildings in the heart of downtown Toronto while walking by. Do you ever wonder while doing so if there is someone looking back down?

An auspicious opportunity allowed us access to a beautiful rooftop which I had been eying for years.

The stunning view it offered was unique not only because of its breadth of view, or the fact that it had a jutting point overhanging the street itself, but because it allowed a twofold view: on the one side was a particularly "old Toronto" (due to the age of the building, no doubt and the fact that we could look down at decidedly "old-school" architecture). And, at the other, we could look up and across at what has happened since.

Just north of Toronto on surplus rail land sits the quiet industrial ruins of grain elevators. Very little information is available surrounding this quiet place, which looms ominously over the surrounding low-lying industrial landscape.

Quite early one morning we decided to pay the site a visit, a friend having spotted it some weeks beforehand while passing nearby. The neighbourhood, housing mostly active trades, was vacant this early in the day. The thick gray clouds above us contrasted sharply with the industrial relic we sought, relegated now to the obscure obsession of a curious few.

Toronto's Portlands are home to many strange and beautiful things. Recently added to the industrial array is the partially deconstructed hull of a massive cargo ship.

There is something terrifying about the prospect of an enormous vehicle torn apart. Forgotten vessels such as this have seen so much of the world, and yet reach such inglorious ends. To find an item like this in Toronto is even more bizarre, and immediately reminded me of the distant shores of Alang, where over half of the world's ships go to die.

For years, the derelict convent of the Sisters of St. John the Divine sat hidden at the edge of a quiet North York suburb, overlooking the valley.

While active, this group of devout Anglican nuns focused their attention on those dealing with and recovering from addiction (substance abuse, etc.). As their cohort grew, sadly they had to move from their beautiful location -- which itself expanded from an original mansion to an intricate maze of buildings. They are currently much closer to a hospital which has proper rehabilitation facilities. As wonderful as their work is, however, it was what they left behind that intrigued me.

We decided to take advantage of Toronto's unseasonably warm weather over the past few nights by visiting some of our favorite rooftops. Transformed by the night, the darkened city shone with a seemingly endless blanket of light.

My rooftopping adventures are usually saved for brighter hours, but with winter's shortened days, some late evening elevation seemed my sole option. What I discovered dazzled me; although rooftopping usually refreshes my (sometimes slightly jaded) view of the built environment, getting a unique take on the city was itself elevated by the darkness.

From a major industrial complex producing some flavourful (but fatty) foods, to its last skeletal remains, Bunge Canada will always remain in the minds and memories of the many people who worked there, lived in the area, or enjoyed its tasty products. And then, of course, there are people like me, who appreciated the aesthetics of its gradual decay.

I already had the opportunity to explore and photograph the remains of Bunge Canada, documenting its appearance post-abandonment -- from its intricate industrial detritus to its fire-damaged office space. I recently reflected on this neglected space after a sojourn to the area, and was amazed by just how little of it remained.