My home is an ossuary, blue-black, and slick with rain. We live airless in these bloodshot arcologies, faces set against a scouring wind. We are crusty eyed and ulcer-tongued, piled over one another just in sight of the bleeding edge of extinction. The smokestacks never die down. The mine has been on fire longer than we’ve numbered years; if the water table ever got cleaned up, I’d miss the taste.
I go, you go, we go.
I am walking along familiar roads grown smaller over time, up hills I remember as mountains. Walking away from the stale fart reek of gas farms, and the stacking high of ken¹ of different shapes and tastes and colours, eating and screwing and doing business, and the flowing effluvia of slaughterhouses and breweries and squashed together people. We were never meant to live like that, all jumbled up and lying on top of each other. Though there was a time when that kept us safe, in time every boundary looks like a target.
Still I am walking, though the road to my rens’² house has split; the crumbly tarmac at the edges breaking off like burnt bread, dissolving in endless rain. When I arrive, I will not be welcome, but I am walking.