Nineteen
I can’t bear being underground. Something about the tons of rock above me and the buildings with their foundations digging into it. Spurs of concrete as white as knuckles gripping the rock; I hear the ground above grumble and creak with the strain. And I think it will c***k and crumble and rain rocks down to bury me.
Grid and I used to climb those tall, tall buildings. Sometimes we climbed with friends of Grid’s. Not climbers, really, although they were good. Explorers, they called themselves. Urban explorers. Committed to getting into and photographing or writing about places that are f*******n to the general public. You’ve probably heard of them and their Take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but footprints philosophy, or seen things in the papers about them climbing the
