There is nothing quite like a 13 hour workday to strip the paint off of your soul.
My mind suffered slow attrition - a practice target for inexhaustible stores of ammunition - hanging cracked and pitted, dented beyond recognition; past rescue. My will, lay charred and smoldering, like a felled city, ashen and alone.
The night air touched the tip of my mangled fingers and they disintegrated like burnt cigarettes.
Like tail-lights in the distance, the embers glowed red as they sped off, whisked away on dark and surreptitious winds.
Wearied, my vision blurs; eyes flushed with exhaustion's oil. Shadows, shapes and muted colors smear past on the darkened road. Letters on signs, furtive, cringe and resist recognition.
Time to get off the bus. I have a tired mile to walk.
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