As a child I crossed the Mississippi and its lesser tributaries many times on road trips and visits to relatives. I always hated the crossings, over the ridiculously high, fragile looking bridges that loomed over the dark moving waters that seemed so dizzyingly far below. Nothing has changed: I still feel a twinge of unease approaching these now-nearly-ancient steel skeletons. I had almost forgotten how narrow the roads across them were. They seem like something out of a distant era, which indeed they are. This one, like the old days, is over the Mississippi.
Legalized narcotics and car accidents
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