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Weekly Contest #60
There are stories, passed on from the Old Ones who are now long dead, of buildings made from liquid rock and sand reaching endlessly into a clear sky. Once, perhaps, there was proof of their words in what littered the ground beneath the vines and moss and grass. Now there is moss beneath the grass, and vines beneath the moss, on and on forever until the word soil no longer has meaning. No remnants of the Old Ones remain, not even in the memory of faces, for even those who knew the Old Ones have long been under the moss, their bodies eaten ...
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