New Russian Chronicles
Surviving monotaxocausofilia

A bridge in an unlikely place

This is about the only bridge of my home town.

You may laugh, but it used to be a useful bridge. There was a train line going under it, and it was high enough for someone to commit suicide. But that was long ago, that story is buried in the hazy memories of those who were children when it happened.

Few people remember.

Proof that it was a train line is the steel black thing, which used to be a signal post.

Now it stands there, forever unused, since it’s in the middle of a roundabout. No one steps on that bridge anymore, except for ill-adapted people that look for a deeper meaning in old and abandoned things.

That bridge sleeps the slumber of the just, of those who became obsolete because they were too busy doing a good job at what they did.

A Hunter’s moon be with them.

A bridge where there shouldn't be one

The bridge, behind him now, perhaps forever, is a medium of transport become a destination: salt air, scavenged neon, the sliding cries of gulls. He has glimpsed the edges of a life there that he feels is somehow ancient and eternal. Apparent disorder arranged in some deeper, some unthinkable fashion.

– From Virtual light, by William Gibson


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