We met under the fog

We met in San Francisco on a cold July afternoon, the kind where the fog comes over the hills like a slow tide. Neither of us was meant to be there that week. We walked out to the Golden Gate because it was the only thing either of us could think to do, and we spent an hour reading other people's initials scratched into brass.

Some of those locks were twenty years old. Some had rusted shut so completely that the names were gone. We stood there wondering who they were, whether they made it, whether anyone would ever wonder the same about us — and then we went and got coffee and talked until the place closed.

Since then we've looked for locks everywhere we travel: Cologne, Rome, a footbridge in Cahors that almost nobody photographs. Most of them get cut off eventually. Cities worry about the weight, and they are right to. So we built this: a rail that never gets cut, on bridges you may never stand on, where $4 buys one spot and it stays yours.

Every bridge here holds a limited number of spots, and when they're gone, they're gone. That's deliberate. A place only feels like somewhere if not everyone can be there.

— the two of us, still travelling