The box, tattered around the edges from many a careless entrance and exit, was beginning to fall in, the roof buckling down as the sides bowed out. It lacked the structural stability to hold through a hard night, especially the coming autumn nights that would leave dew so complex it may as well have been a single malt from the highlands. With nothing inside but a mildewed sleeping bag as worn and tattered as its shelter, the box was left in the street to decay, to fall in to the general ruin it surrounded while life carried on in the connecting streets, a nothingness to the world and a forgotten everything to a forgotten person.


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