“I suppose there will be better times.”
When will they come?
“They will happen.”
How sure are you that they haven’t happened already?
Before he could answer, the earth shook hard, like a sleeping drunk being violently shaken to wake up. He scrambled to hold on to the bannisters of the porch, but the earthquake grew stronger and stronger, literally tossing all sorts of things heavy and light all over the place. He kept his grip until he thought, contradictory to what he just said – that there will be no better times. His hopes for prosperity and comfort, shaken and broken, were overlapped by a feeling of submission, brought upon by a sudden cataclysm which literally reduced the ruins he would wait on, 30 minutes a day, to rubble.
Suddenly the madness stopped, and though his body was scarred and broken, buried beneath what used to be a symbol of hope for him, he was still alive – alive enough to wrestle out of the wreckage on top of him, alive enough to struggle to his feet.
“What will I stand on now?”
As he listlessly kicked away the dirt and rocks immediately around him, he noticed two things – that the ruins he frequented stayed where it was because it was on a foundation, and that this foundation was not moved, not damaged by the great and swift earthquake.
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