[Kingdoms aren't built on dreams. He'd said that to Eli once, to make sure the boy understood the future would be written in blood and sacrifice, not indulgent hopes. But the past... Maybe there's still room for dreams in the past.
Dreams end, dreams die, but they're lovely while they last, aren't they?]
And there were a lot of cities?
[There's not much left that can stir feeling in the ashes that are his life, but he's rapt as Five paints a picture of a way of life people from his time can only speculate about. One could be tempted to mistake M.K. for a good listener if they were to see him now.
How often? How often had they found some rusted vestige of the way things could've been if the world had been kinder to itself and wished someone could explain it? It'd only taken death to make it possible.]
Cities that ran themselves without barons. And the buildings--there were tall ones, like in the pictures? Made out of glass. [The word comes back to him.] Skyscrapers?
[Harold Jenkins' house had been in suburbia. All squat homes, no towers like what captured the imagination on the postcards. Still, one troubled man's home seen through the distracted eyes of an ex-assassin with bigger problems to tend to had held more unique riches in one place than M.K.'s seen in most of his life.]
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Dreams end, dreams die, but they're lovely while they last, aren't they?]
And there were a lot of cities?
[There's not much left that can stir feeling in the ashes that are his life, but he's rapt as Five paints a picture of a way of life people from his time can only speculate about. One could be tempted to mistake M.K. for a good listener if they were to see him now.
How often? How often had they found some rusted vestige of the way things could've been if the world had been kinder to itself and wished someone could explain it? It'd only taken death to make it possible.]
Cities that ran themselves without barons. And the buildings--there were tall ones, like in the pictures? Made out of glass. [The word comes back to him.] Skyscrapers?
[Harold Jenkins' house had been in suburbia. All squat homes, no towers like what captured the imagination on the postcards. Still, one troubled man's home seen through the distracted eyes of an ex-assassin with bigger problems to tend to had held more unique riches in one place than M.K.'s seen in most of his life.]