With a prolonged groan, the bridge dies, her final protest reverberating in the valley like the report of an old cannon.

Around me, my world is transformed into rubble and rain, dust and darkness. I clutch to a section of tumbling concrete, and onto this one stone I project my anger and wounded love. This bridge... her cracks and spots are each an empty promise, and each pebble carries the smirking face of betrayal.

"She is dying as well," rings my heart, flattered that its own destruction was worth such sacrifice. If I was indeed sold, why not obtain some sense of satisfaction from the high price? There is no lack of honor in the words "We make this final journey together."

Laughing, the tumbling pieces shriek, "Ah, but I will be built again!" and every trace of that which once held me high instantly crumbles to dust, becoming part of the air itself. Even held firmly in my hands, my slab of concrete disintegrates into a fine mist.

Alone I fall. In this seemingly perpetual state of change, my mind remains static, clinging to a solitary thought: fear of that change. The waters below silently wait for me, as tempestous as the storm itself, and as indecipherable as a monolithic wall.

The churning waves, moved to fury by the hurricane's howling winds, seem a tapestry of black and white, no more transparent than the soil and clay I molded as a child.

But now, I am the clay. I feel the sting of the crests of the waves. The sea's outstretched arms are eager to mold me.

Or to pull me down.