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The letter writer

In the city, the street always loud and bright with light. At two in the morning, stumbling towards home from Tenderloin bars. Buses and fire trucks. Hundreds of thousands of people. Sleeping, snoring, yelling, fucking. Noise surrounding noise.

Now, deep underground. No streets. Only railroad and highways. No people. Only metal and glass and cargo. Deep underground, staring at dusty sheets of paper. Deep underground, scribbling messages never to be read. Deep underground, drinking and sleeping and drinking and sleeping and drinking. Eating frozen things. Deep underground, forever dark, forever remembering city lights.