In those first years the roads were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. Wearing masks and goggles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators. Their barrows heaped with shoddy. Towing wagons or carts. Their eyes bright in their skulls. Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.
In the early years of devastation, the roads became crowded with refugees, cloaked in layers of clothing. They donned masks and goggles, appearing as if they were lost pilots, reduced to sitting by the roadside in tattered rags, navigating the remnants of their former lives. Their carts, filled with dilapidated possessions, symbolized their struggle, while their bright eyes contrasted sharply with their frail, weary bodies. This vivid imagery underscores the harsh...
