In this place The air is so dry that water sulks. The sky is a viscous brown mosaic. The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.
A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation. Words on a man’s tongue sound like rhythmic coughing. At the only stoplight the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”
Strangers recoil from me as if from an embarrassing stain.
People stream to the town square for some indecipherable ritual. Probably a funeral for the sun or a snake oil sale.
Welcome to humankind’s true garden. Not paradise but a place of desolation, and what comes after is not exile but striving and getting the hell out.