Swinging onto Van Buren, I pass beneath the old Chicago Club. I like the look of this old building, its dull red stone still crisp and glowing with a peculiar patina. More
I love it when the Board of Trade Building looks grand and glorious, when it’s wreathed in fog and looks as though Batman could be capering about on its heights. A night like this, and the tower evokes the whole era that it was made in, when the Thin Man was in and the money flowed.
One of the most blessed hours of the day is five o’clock, when workers stream out into the city streets, liberated from their jobs. The sunlight floats down along the endless facade of a pillared bank, intersecting with each tread, whether heavy or light.