Sometime in November. I found myself on a boardwalk. I looked out towards the lake. Smokestacks in the distance puffed a gas. That gas became the clouds. Those clouds became the gas. That were the clouds. That were the gas. That seeped into the stacks. That smoked the horizon dense and black. Don’t know where they came from, don’t know where they started. I was feeding birds a few hours ago. They flew away.
“No matter how much we mess with nature, it’ll always be beautiful. And we’ll be dead.”