Pitter patter on my head, standing on a corner of this piece of the world, spat from a cancerous jaw. Closing my eyes I taste the acid and corruption, as the ground and leaves hiss around me. Inhaling the stale scents of chemicals and chalk, melting and bubbling under my useless feet, the sky turns brown and attempts to end our lives again.
When the rain sweeps in I can’t see beyond the end of the road. I look towards my escape route guarded by a white mist and unknowable shapes, voices, actions… gestures I cannot recognise. I turn away and look back at those dull, disinterested buildings, knowing that I’ll never leave their lethargy.
Under a little fort of rusted oil drums, I lie face down on the cold concrete floor until the dust sticks to my skin. As green fades to grey, our memories are built upon and ‘modernised’. My fingernails are raw and chipped from clawing at the ground, trying to find our dreams and footprints. Some dim echo of old laughter or a lost conversation still softly bouncing around in the deep places of the Earth, unmolested by experience. I have to find them before they stop bouncing, and simply pop like a soap bubble in a field of brambles.
When the Sun breaks through the miasma I stretch my muscles, pulling all my cells apart to allow as much heat and light in as possible. In this dank, ruined iron shelter, I live for colours.