I remember leaning against that cold steel girder, watching the sun dip into the bay, all orange and purple fire, and the new bridge just… standing there, already an old giant. My hands were rough, split from the rebar, and I thought, a hundred years, easy, that bridge will still be here. And me? A flicker. A little synaptic spark, gone and forgotten, like a cheap cigar ash blown away by the breeze. It felt like a diagnostic incongruity – this monumental work from such a brief, negligible existence. Just a bit part in a long play, building something that would outlast my very bones, my PAYCHECK, my name... fading like the last light on the water.