So far below the reach of Heaven, sand—imported from far, desert places—touches water. It is caressed by waves and washes (like forgotten whispers) into turgid and murky oblivion. Fish sift the lost sand in search of water mites and small, boneless things. What whispers the sand has shared with wind now feeds witless foragers. Inland, far from the beaches, the tatters of industry crumble and rot; its flesh is torn—by wind, and by rain—from massive iron skeletons. They, in their turn, rust and are reclaimed by the soils from which they were originally smelted. Industry, like the sand of the city’s beaches, finds its true origins Elsewhere. Far away. What meager goods the city produces are horded for itself. There is a strange trade-off. The air is cleaner for the absence of industry, and the city itself survives—not on things made—but on services rendered. The city’s residents are its commodity, a human resource sold (though it's never called that) to the corporations that now dwell in the monster towers that skewer the city’s heart. So far below the reach of Heaven, where shadows dwell even in the harshest light, the city’s residents throw themselves through relentless scurries. They know their status as a human commodity mined by the big corporations in the steel and crystal towers, and so their relentless scampering serves a purpose. To remain fit. To remain desirable. Even at rest, they scurry as if the city and its service industry is a vast and complicated machine, fueled by their constant play at literal and symbolic Brownian Motion. Here, where traffic mimics the flow of the river, A resident jogs westward, scampering in accordance with the city’s wordless demand. He is oblivious to the bridge he crosses, or the others in the distance: two of them arranged like scissors, and there—farther away—another defined by its rusting and ancient towers. Of the three distant bridges, only two function. One—raised—services nothing. It will never span the river again, and it is only a matter of time before industry—somewhere else—scavenges the rust-coated iron. He scarcely notices the near bridges: neighbors to the one he crosses. It doesn’t occur to him that the live bridge and the dead bridge are set like a seamstress’ shears, ready to cut the one vital thread that supports all that the city represents. The seamstress is remiss, and so the city survives—its thread remains intact. But for how long? *** This is yet another picture taken last Saturday, as I wandered through Chicago’s downtown core with Corey. We met and took pictures, as is our weekend custom, in the Loop and then decided on a visit to Chinatown for lunch. Sated, we left Chinatown in search of Chicago’s industrial ghosts. We saw many. Warehouses that were once factories. Foundation-ruins like the half-hearted tomb excavations history’s apocryphal kings. We ambled through the stink of rust and diesel exhaust, heard sirens announcing the rise (and resettling) of a vertical lift bridge’s span. At sunset, the clouds broke, gracing the city with light and eventual, colorful darkness. This image is a marker of that moment when the clouds broke, and another of the city’s inhabitants jogged within range of my camera. I wasn’t aiming for him: I wanted the bridges—the vertical lift railroad bridge so common—now—in my gallery, and The Scissors, also posted earlier. I learned that The Scissors will never close. The raised bridge services a railroad line that no longer functions. As Corey and I walked along Canal Street, we passed the truncated rail-line. Its street-spanning viaduct had been torn down and the westerly tracks were ripped from the earth and replaced by the butt-end of an upscale shopping mall. As always, thank you for viewing, reading and commenting.