We live among the remains of dead people. It's an unpleasant state. It's quiet and it's cold and we never get to sleep.
The wind throws razor blades at us. We bleed all the time. Our blood is orange and syropy, drooling down our sides and into our socks. It doesn't matter.
How often have strangers visited here? Tourists wander in. They look at us as though we were museum exhibits. After a weekend, they return to their homes, and forget what they've seen.
We can crawl on our hands and knees. Rarely we can stand. It's almost always raining ash from the sky. We used to have pet dinosaurs. We used to live in crystal caves.
"Clever monkey. Kind monkey. Ugly little shit, with claws that drip poison. I've got every right to grind you up for dog food. Every goddamn right."
Random. Random and cold. Random and pointless and cold and crying. With no teeth. With no hair. Bald, toothless, and lacking any meaning. Barely alive. Barely moving -- not even crawling any more.
We cook camel meat over a fire in a shopping cart. Burning car tires. It's only Monday. It's always Monday. A world full of never-ending Mondays.
We don't have to do this. We don't have to live this way. But we do. No one knows why. It's always been this way. There are rules. No one knows who made them. They aren't written down anywhere. We just know what they are.
We can't stop the shudders. And why would we want to?
We miss our pet dinosaurs.
