#61

Shining red lights like fireflies from hell moving slowly along, together. Suspended on a concrete bridge high above...what? Fog and rain veil all else from view, stirring atavistic fears in the bellies of modern man in suit and tie with steaming black coffee in metal mug in hand. That perhaps this is the last stop before the edge of the world. And then. Dark shapes peer through the mist. Rectangular and solid, metal and mortar. And the fireflies flow ever forward, on to the responsibility that the rising sun recalls.