The bridge's tower emerged out of the mist like the sail of a motionless ship. It stood there: powerful and secure, with arms outstretched, bearing the weight of its unseen deck. Above the rooftops of the old city; above the antennae and aerials that brought light and comfort to the houses below, feeding their occupants a constant diet of telenovelas and football, keeping them indoors and as unthinking as anything the dictatorship could have conjured - above them all rose this monument to man's triumph over nature. The people remained indoors. The people remained unthinking. The tower stood ominously, reminding all who cared to remember - all who dared to remember and reconnect with their surroundings - that it was a symbol of repression: born of a dictatorship and named for a dictator. The mist seemed to give it power over the arials on the rooftops of the houses in which the people gathered in front of their televisions, self-administering their daily dose of apathy and forgetfulness. Yet they had not really forgotten; they just didn't want to remember. The tower of the bridge stood over them: a reminder of a past and of a present and of a future in which nothing has or will ever change. No-one cares enough any more.