Thursday, 12 January 2012

A thin, sandy layer of dust covers its every street and coats its every colorful, crumbling house. With every passing car it shoots up. With every swinging door it rains down. That is to say, it doesn't do either very often in little, lazy Leon.

The locals, when they move, move like they have nowhere to go. They have seen a lot. The revolution wasn't so long ago.

They still remember it in lost, leftist Leon.

They still remember the struggle, its causes, its consequences. They still remember the sounds of airplanes in the night, the smell of powder and the victory cries. They still remember what it felt like, having hope.

Its their defeat that they try to forget in lovely, lonely Leon.


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