ConstructionI'm in traffic.Before I start, know this has no end. This story. It's just a chunk of my life, split free without clean edges. Where exactly it ends, I haven't figured out yet. It'll conclude, this chunk, at the end of some paragraph, but really it won't all be over until I'm dead and underground, grass growing like chest hair from my buried body. It starts somewhere, some day when I started working sites as a prologue man, the first guy on the scene. It was called a promotion, and I thought it was at first. I was the one who got to tear the house to pieces with a sledgehammer. I was the one who would knock down walls to be rebuilt, trash