Not again. Definitely, there are routines that tie will never know. Again, the nine light echoes that announce when they could not get up alone. The noise had to accompany them. And now the third week. And this will twenty-one headaches. The floor vibrates. The glass door to wood scratch. And patience. It's more than a combined voice monotonous and mechanical movements sweeping every stone trying to stand stoically. Is torture. Can not live. Do not let them. Eight hours of shafts without holes, destruction of war in peacetime superficial. 
machines riddled their minds, twist every thought. Each hit a beatone step, one syllable incomplete. His reflexes are stealthy surprise: at this point waiting for an image of themselves more robotic. I no longer remember what it tastes like silence. They wonder if kids will laugh with that tinkle of May fair which harmonized the afternoons when the tremor disappears gives life to the walls. Impatiently await a break of oxygen in mid air and dust contaminated by delusions. In the expected fall apart the last threads of sanity
And not just run away from that quiet place. So do the carriers of luggage without a return ticket. Unable to bear one more hammer blow. They can not afford another attack on normal. Reduced pack life
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