Dispatches from Concrete
Chapter 2: Polish Hill
We trudged through the forgotten alleyways, up to the hills. The snow silenced the sounds of cars upon the overpass, the only noise left was of the markings whispering on the walls. Some bitching of corruption, frustration, vandalism some shrugging their shoulders in apathetic attitudes. But some drips of paint muttered heartache, confusion, words afraid to be spoken aloud. We crested the hills, back into towns and warm cozy coffee shops, the warmth of hot coffee melting memories of pictures in our minds.














