The wind has never liked those secrets. To brush off that layer of dust, to expose what is true, is it's wish. The wind isn't volatile by nurture, yet it is ever-moving. Everchanging. The wind cannot do as it pleases, by nature.
Passed the mansions, filled with false laughter, served with alcohol and a side of growing greed, to the slums of societies servants. Blue-collar workers, still at toil. Their fruits of their labor, not even theirs. When did a man not own what he worked for. When did man not have his land? Providing enough for himself and his family, when did work change from giving you what you needed to giving you enough to survive?
When did the thread of life rip at the seams.
The wind sees all, but cannot call. And the cycle is but the same.
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