Raden4000

     His hands blistered along the handle of the shovel, puss and blood forming a sticky glue to the cracked and splintered wood. The cruel heat cooked the flesh from the workers back, cloth had long ago become frayed strands hanging loosely about his neck and waste. The skin of his back became a mural of bulbous leaking sores weeping at the open skies. The man worked, diligent, never breaking his exhausted, eternal rhythm.     The man's mind was there behind his flat eyes. He managed his sanity well enough, perhaps more than those that surrounded him. They were shifting and formless at the corners of his eyes, but hearing the sound of his