perfect little dream. the kind that hurts the most.
We’d crossed from gravel to a wooden walkway, so it was a bridge. Each measured tread across the weathered planking echoed in my ears. I couldn’t tell if we were a few inches above a murky swamp or hundreds of feet above a sheer drop. A murky mist blurred the world beyond the railings and soon thickened into for that grew thicker and thicker. ~INVISIBLE JOURNEY ~ Mary Buckham @Found on vmburkhardt.tumblr.com
undr: “ Keystone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images A London bus makes its way along Fleet Street in heavy smog, December 1952 ”