The sun of the first of five days rose different, it swore by the dried salt of men, and cursed by their darker shades.
The roads impressed on their mother crust and they were all of them tilted uphill.
The procession of the industry-bound are led about their way by the taskmasters of necessity, neck threaded to neck, foot threaded to foot, their train trudges towards the daybreak.
Two slaves, master and servant; each, no better than the meals they earn, in grit and dig.
Nails of stubbed digits, shovels on withered limbs, pickaxes that outweigh the bearer, the search persists.
The Qwerty clicks of Fibre Speak. The Whippings Weary Weepings... @the first longing of the day fifth.
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