A cockerel sounded it was dawn as tragedy walked the bare chest of the street and wrote frustration on the face of the earth. The land that spread before me like an old balance sheet under the little nose of a shrewd accountant was covered with men who were as dark as the midnight, broken and shattered, like savages in defenseless post waiting for providence to take her esteemed seat in the scheme of things and humble the bizarre tale that is more hellish than the enterprise of a sorcerer. They were reduced by the cruel hands of an unjust fate, and had nothing better to do than gazing at our mutual friend, the sun—a hot yellow ball that fed the earth as if there was no morrow. I saw tears gathered in their eyes and were not better than a woman in travail in a cold night. It would have been better they never had a dose of his goodwill, for his goodwill was like a grave, lurking in the pool of loneliness, which was the meal for men of little means and those under the spell of confusion...
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