What’s beyond the bridge, I might never know. But it shines nonetheless at night. And it remains still and intact in the morning, when I rise. Whenever I look up, it’s there, present in its might, angled right toward me. The cars that travel it differ in their speeds. But, together, they form symmetrical movement — one speeds one way, the other speeds the other. This never-ending circulation persists despite the change of time, the passing of weather, and what exists between me and it. It keeps on going, on and on. Even when I come back, after a long day, the bridge churns as it had a few hours past. It won’t change for me, nor would…

