It’s a distinctly crisp sound…walking through broken glass…some ancestral memory or cultural artifact cementing its crunch and almost musical notes as the unquestioned herald of chaos and destruction.

But it’s quiet when I don’t move…and for a moment I just stand there among the carnage and ponder.

An overwhelmingly foul mood and uncertain thoughts arise…and that’s perhaps inevitable…when you’re staring at the wreckage of shattered dreams.

OPRS (Other People's Roof Stuff).

OPRS (Other People’s Roof Stuff).

(there’s a couple hundred pounds of Other People’s Roof Stuff that blew through the windows of our building)

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