This corner of the skyway system is one of the most anonymous of all. I know I am looking at the Gateway Ramp skyway running north of a survivor of the sixties urban renewal.
The psalimpsest of the wall is written, erased, rewritten, as the scribe of time tries to spell out its message of death and rebirth in the city bosom. I have come to have a special fondness for these rudest of brick patches. They glow, on the oldest of exteriors that still hold their own, unnamed, against the slick squatters of a more recent civic urge.
When the glass walls are 130 years old, who will want to run a sentimental hand along their wizened shards?
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