The Final Footprint
I slam my knuckles against the nearest solid mass. The whispers from crowds sigh - there are deep breaths and understated coughs, the speaker remains impassioned. They have deep walls for this, feet thick and iron clad, for every second is drowned. Sometimes it’s like I’m walking from a ruthless dream - haggard and weary but in the same sentence governing for the next ambush. There are no survivors, there are only witnesses. And there we stand, living for trial, dancing for menace, persuading the last rat to stay aboard. There are hoards and mobs that feel something, for the rest of us it’s just like swimming by shallow reeds as the tendrils stroke our legs, begging us to drown. No one ever thought that straws were engineered to break as desperate hands thrived at them. What we think is largely inconsequential. I take full responsibility for clenching glass until it shatters.
I’d like to be laconic about somethings, but the heights are somewhere to be reached, and if we can point you in the right direction, then perhaps we will. This is just communication - no one should collapse as the last message is dispatched too late for heroes to die in mud. I only wish I had hands of magnets to steer lone carriages to the bridge and not into deep valleys of heather and tumbleweed.
The future doesn’t belong to us. Deep thoughts burrow deeper, until they hit rocks too hard to claw. At least the evidence will be in our fingernails, when it’s time for our excavation…