By Sumanth Naidu
Feb 01 2021 3 min read

Immune Imagine how hard it is to break up asphalt with a pickaxe. Now imagine it's not even a very good pickaxe. And you've been doing it for days. The sun, hotter now, makes the sweat bead on your face, itchy like a bug landing on you. Sometimes enough water escapes your pores to form a little stream that carves a path down the black dust on your face. And it tortures you that your body is letting such a precious resource just drip onto the ground. Unretrievable. This has been my existence for almost a full moon. Me, my pickaxe, and the pavement. My hands have carved grooves into the handle as the handle has chiseled callouses onto my hands. I worry my arms won't know how to do anything else by the time I get to stop. Will they remember how to hug? How to hold? I don't want to tell you how much more asphalt there is to go. Sometimes, I get to use a shovel to heave the crumbles of concrete into the circulating wheelbarrow. It comes past my plot every hour or so. They say a change is as good as a break. I would like to state for the record that it depends on the de

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