The thing I've handled most in my life isn't the money of the living, but the bones of the dead.
I'm almost fifty this year, and I just got out. My joints ache on rainy days, age spots cover the backs of my hands, and my knuckles are deformed. The years I spent eating dirt and sitting in prison have all caught up with me. Young people talk about how mysterious things are underground. To hell with that. There's no romance, just one crook preying on another, and the stench of rot. Nine out of ten end up trapped in the pits, their bodies never recovered intact. Even if you crawl out, you're still a sewer rat, trembling at the sound of a siren. These days, the authorities are strict. Anything you dig up can't be kept hidden. Bottles and jars won't make you rich; they'll earn you iron bracelets and an iron-barred cell. Take my advice: no matter how hard life gets, don't turn to what's underground. Once you step in, your life is as good as over.
My life of sin began with that green train in 1995.
Why is this book not read by anyone? I will add it to the bookshelf and wait for it to be finished.