At the end of the train line a quiet town bears daily witness to a relentless dance of destruction.
A deep growl rumbles through the afternoon air, vibrating through bodies and resonating beneath the ground.
It’s the roar of the Liebherr — laboring like a mechanical beast, relentless yet obedient, tamed under command.
The Liebherr’s iron claw lunges, tearing into the remains of walls and tangled debris, dismantling the world piece by piece.
Slabs of concrete crash to the ground, twisted rods of iron screech in protest, metal sheets fold like paper, and grimy layers of insulation tumble down in slow motion.
Through the low hum of combustion engines, punctuated by sudden clinks of breaking material and the clatter of falling debris, the Liebherrs call to one another.
Their stuttering beeps set the rhythm of the scene, each one a warning, as the hulking machines creep back and forth.
At times, the mechanical beast pauses, as if to gather its breath. It hisses — a sound like something subterranean and ancient, a serpent that rarely sees the sun.
It’s as if it has emerged from the depths of the earth, momentarily subdued, steam curling from its nostrils, savoring the scent of its next target, insatiable in its hunger for destruction.