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The sun sits on the mountain top teasing the men below. They, who work wrapped in wool and still shiver in the frosty air while the sun smiles at them, but will not reach out to them. The men hate the sun. The sun is not aware of the men.
Snowfall and time and loneliness. These are the fences that sit in the mens' brains – they keep thoughts in until they grow stale or rancid. They keep new ideas out, forcing them into some periphery of the brain, seeping out like steam from sweat as the men toil in the frigid air.
They all came for different reasons and stayed for the same reason. There was nowhere else to go. Stuck in a hell-scape of frozen tundra and ice, the men muttered curses that reached up to the heavens and fell on deaf ears.
They go days without seeing any humans that aren’t half frozen. Any animals that aren’t half starved. It is a penance for a life lived recklessly, and the men accept it. But they will always hate the sun.
#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...