Parking Lot No. 7 was 212 spaces of asphalt that nobody used after the station moved. We cut the tarmac into strips, left the white lines where they fell, and let the ground decide what came back.
Three seasons later the strips are clover, yarrow and wild carrot; the lines still show where the cars used to stand. Nothing was planted in straight rows. The lamp posts stayed; the bats like them.
We did not design a park. We designed the conditions for one: which strips to open first, where water should stand after rain, what to mow once a year and what never to touch. The residents chose the paths by walking them.
The site is monitored with a single fixed camera, one photograph each dawn. The archive of 900 mornings is open to anyone who asks for it. Every name, number and place on this page is invented — Lichen Office is a demonstration.