Everything was damp and cold, coated from a persistent mist that refused to dissipate, much like the fog that hung thick within the air, keeping the sunlight from brightening-up an otherwise wonderfully dreary, grey day. In retrospect, wet steel is probably not the greatest surface for a quick afternoon ascent, but it is hard for me to pass up the photogenic vibes of a gloomy day. And so with both hands grasping the rusty guardrail, I shimmied my way up toward the apex of a bridge forever stuck in the open position. From atop, the views were just as dreadful as I had hoped. Dead infrastructure, rusty hunks of dilapidated metal and steel against a somber grey sky, what more could I ask for really? Well perhaps a safe descent I suppose. But if you're reading this now, it can be assumed I survived. Either that, or my ghost writer got the memo.
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