Shelford Hill stands near the remnants of an old highway, once proudly supported by tons of concrete pillars stacked strong, now heaving slowly downwards, falling gracefully over years, then suddenly, with howls, creaks and thunderous shocks, to the ground.
It stands also where the old highway was a new highway, or a not-so-new highway, grown over with moss, cleaned and then regrown, cleaned and then regrown.
It stood where there were not yet houses and condominiums, no paths, no sidewalks, no roads. Before even a man named Shelford set foot on this island, even before Shelford was Shallow Fords, both Little and otherwise, on an island far, far away.
It stands now, here, a set of numbers directing electricity certain ways, in certain tubes, in certain paths, to the electricity before you, rendering text, image, space, sound. It stands and always stood, will stand too, until the day when all hills are flattened, mountains even, gone.
It stands to hide, it stands to reveal, it stands to guide, it stands to mislead.
Little by little, it fades, falls, is crushed underfoot.
Until all that remains is electricity, until it is reborn.
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