I sit on a scarred bench in the old garden besides the lost city, under the technicolored skies. The lights here burn a little more with the setting sun, I can see the gases from the dumps rising above like green shadows of the fading trees. The grass underneath my cold feet smells of them. Their laughter at death. Their laughter after their death.
I sit there and watch the drapes fall till the lights are out. I sit there since a sun completes it's circle and crumbles back into it's nucleus. I finger the one dying and suck it's life to blow into a new one.
I don't move an inch from there. I won't move too. The smell of this plastic dump doesn't suffocate me. Maybe,it does. Yeah,it does. Well,quite less than the fleshy one infront of me.