We didn't built towers of bricks anymore. We laid down the scaffolding and planted special vines at the base. The plants grew thick and breathing walls, curving around the windows.
The tower rose as a might oak upon the grassy knoll. It was the most sincere of greys, that deep slate-blue. Under a sky that changed by the moment, it was a sense of permanence and perspective on the passage of time.
The tower was built in the good times, in the days of peace. One could tell that from the generously sized doors and windows.
Every brick of that tower had been placed by the workers hands into a perfect circle. It rose as the strong stem of a plant, one from good rich soils does, toward the canvas above. We loved to climb the curved stairs, me and him, so we could gaze and the blue and the starlit black all the same.
The tower grew from the ground as an albino plant reaching for the sun, awaiting the sunny rays to kiss it green.
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