Civilisations are generally remembered by their grandest architectural undertakings. The Romans left the Colosseum; the Egyptians left the Pyramids; the late twentieth-century British Department of Transport left the underside of the elevated Coventry ring road.
This is a cathedral built entirely in tribute to the singular, sacred god of Traffic Flow.
Above, thousands of mid-tier family hatchbacks rattle along at fifty miles per hour, their drivers totally oblivious to the vast, shadowy underworld holding them aloft. Below, in the permanent gloom beneath the pre-stressed concrete beams, an entirely separate ecosystem thrives. It is an intricate forest of load-bearing pillars, rust stains, and heavy-duty razor wire designed to keep people from trespassing onto some extremely valuable dirt.
Yet even in the heart of this grey, brutalist cavern, the human spirit refuses to be entirely subdued by civil engineering.
Someone named GHOST has painstakingly applied lime-green aerosol paint to the brickwork, while an unknown municipal mystic has carved cryptic, chalky glyphs near the top of the main column—presumably an ancient warning from an engineer who noticed that the deck had settled three millimetres to the left during the hot summer of 1994.
It is monumental, utterly unloved, and will almost certainly outlive us all.