Memories. Secrets. Shenanigans. Crimes of all shapes and sizes. They live on in the crevices in which they fall; wedged for eternity, never allowed to fully fade into oblivion. A piece, a keepsake of sorts, is collected like a historical scrapbook of the paved roadways barely upholding our eccentric egos. Everything is stored. Nothing can be forgotten - not really. Under the black lights, the microscopes, the dyes and dips they always reappear for our mindless satiation. Bite by bite, sneer by sneer, we consume it all, greedily at first but always eventually slowing to a monotonous chew. We go in with our bug ideas swaying out front but leave with our tails between our legs in the back, cowering from the realities we never realized. And once they are out of their box, it can take centuries to put them back in. They usually come back out again years later when our memory fades and childish fools decide they need something new to play with. Their mistake; these were meant to entertain or charm, they are the mounds of hate along with the rare bits of laughter and joy that have been buried below - planted like elusive flowers that come in like weeds and leave us with nothing but the stench of their rot.
Some cracks hold the blood, sweat, and tears of the laborers, some from those others took away. All of them maintain their parasites by delaying water flow and unearthing by curious wretches.
These cracks, well, they hold the blood from a gang fight from over one hundred years ago and that one over there covers the tears that fell from a poor, broken mother's face only a few days back. Their cruel memory keeping will be something to "care about" when someone cares... many years from then. From now. From ever. But when it happens, when someone starts digging, researching, they find their stories - the ones no one ever thought would be documented. But isn't that all we care about as a human race these days... documenting things? Sharing our secrets with a world that no longer considers? Exposing ourselves to only be brutalized by our decision to do so later?
The cracks in the cobblestones know better than us. They know better than to put it all out on the table for the thugs to steal and murderers to maim. What's best not known is best to live on in the crevices. Memories. Secrets. Shenanigans. Crimes of all shapes and sizes. Let them fade from our minds, though never into oblivion. They will be there, waiting for us fools.