So I was walking with myself for company, and it started to
rain. It smelled of old metal and rotting leather. The
streets were darkly lit, oiled and already wet, and the
skies were ash. On the horizon machines were humming, slowly
dying, marking ends of sorts of wisdoms that no longer
mattered.

Water pockets burst when tread on, hissing puffs of tar.
Barren valleys laid with waste outlined plains of hardened
sand. Small flames flickered lamely, spread across the sands
in wind shielded niches fueled by stray acids streaming
under the dunes.

It was something unsound to be about, a disturbance to the
soft decadence that caressed so smoothly, all that would,
like us, be motioned. Oil tinted dampness clung to our skin,
a resisting of organics to immersed intoxication.

When change had a voice once, metal clashed to reflect the
smooth skin of a beauty that spawned itself as to remind
them of loss and tragedy. The beauty went gray, and as
metals rust time, they all went away, and left failure
behind.

And though once cries around would sting of confusion and
anguish, now all was quiet, and we didn't mind.

After all it didn't matter, we were just out for a walk.