The Ruins

The streets are layered with leftover rain; thick with fumes of wet sand and burnt gas. I could scoop the clouds out of the air and add it to my midnight glass of café, but I have chosen to stare at the florescent glow instead. The city leaves little to be seens. Tonight my world is 31 miles to the east and to the west.

There is nothing else.

We soar past the others driving at an irregular pace, but it feels right. All the lights are one continuous line from Antigua to home. The car smells of burnt rubber and gas. Fumes which seem pleasant and consistently forbidden in my world. I inhale as an rebellion would, slowly and shy. I welcome every toxic chemical of the night into my existence.

Welcome to The Ruins.


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