“There are concrete stacks” or so he said, in that language we've never mastered. “There are concrete stacks that broke our backs when we lugged and skulked for horizon.” He smiled a bit and snapped a finger at a memory of his building, though a flash of pain made the madness sane when he hesitated of the fallen. “We paid the bills, we paid the lambs, we paid the girls for all their trouble, but in the dirt we laid our heads with the bruising, broken rubble.” He turned and spat and winked at that leaning lady at the bar, but his gaze was off to recall and cough through the dust where the dreams turned into fall. “The tunnels were life, like veins, through strife, though the means left a lot to desire.” He cried a bit while we moved to sit overlooking the concrete messiah.
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