Stepping out of the hotel and back in the bus, the streets were (as before) lifeless, leaving my weathered soul without even mild comfort.

I thought of the thousands who lost their one and only life here (if you believe in the afterlife), and the very image of this stole mine second to last hope, for my last was that I had survived this tragic travesty.

It all heavily overwhelmed me with emotion to the point the only thing I could do was let tears.

Darkness steadily conquered my fleeting want, that someone, even just one man or woman, even if a criminal, even if a felon had lived though bombarded with fire and falling.

After about a half a day drive I shouted “Stop I spot!” for a man lied crushed under a pile of rubble, yet (unlike too many I had seen in the same or similar state) his free arm (for the other was lodged under the concrete stones holding him terribly in this terrible cage) was twitching slightly from pain.

Now me, Richie and his uncle grouped together to unlock him from his prison, stone after stone until we could dis join him from his tomb.

Now once liberated and on the road, he slept. I only left again with my lonely thoughts, I wept the more.

Hours were spent transitioning from urbs to suburbs, and from day to night, yet the survivor man and my depression were both unaffected.

Do to my shaken morale, the weakness of Henry and Grace (and despite the youth of Richie), Rich’s uncle spoke up (which was seldom with him) saying “It’s time we rest, that house will do.” he pointed Henry (the driver) to a white house with a red roof, and so we all rested there for the night.

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