Thank you, Mr. Malt
untitled
My, my, what are you doing down here?
Have you gotten lost?
Of course, here, you're never lost. They can always see you. You know that? There are eyes everywhere, and each building is a microphone amplifying white noise. And what's even worse is they don't care.
I used to live here, actually. Not just the city I mean - where we are. My house used to be here. Oh, don't look like that. I'm always happy when I come here. It's the only place I can remember anything from before it all started. I can almost remember my parents names.
I can almost remember my name.
But for now you can call me Mr. Malt.
Now come on, lets get you out of here, I think I can hear the dogs coming.
Now that I've found you I think this calls for a celebration. Honestly it seems like it's been ages since I've found anyone who seemed of sound mind in this city. I had begun to believe honest humanity was all but extinct. I sometimes even question myself. It seems pretty unlikely that I haven't yet gone at least a bit mad. I wonder how many perfectly sane people question their state of mind.
It's this city of course, if you can even call it that anymore. I look at it now and all I see is a gangrenous limb - a tumor. Nothing but rubble, glass, and fallen telephone wires like loose stitches on an open wound.
So what are we doing still alive? I'm sure you have your story and, perhaps, I do too, but there's no reason for us to be here. There is nothing here. Nothing for us. Nothing for Them. There's probably barely even a handful of people in the world who remember us, and even they block it out like an embarrassing memory.
Ah! Up here! We should be safe up here.
Come on, take my hand. Let's go set shit on fire.
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