i climbed so far, so many rungs on that ladder... i was determined to find some haven, some place in which i could find safety for my mind and respite for my blistered hands. and after all this time, ive finally arrived... i have come home. but this City... it is not what it used to be. i feel all alone in this sanctuary for the lonely; for the lonely have all but abandoned this place, leaving only a few of us to keep quiet vigil over our home. i, too, will keep vigil here. for even if i never cross paths with another citizen of this empty oasis, i know that this is where i belong.

unless, of course, i turn back to the ladder.

There are bodies wrapped in cloths, police and government investigators in riot gear, drones with nail guns and corpses stuffed with empty holes laid out in long rows to thwart pursuit. The image I conjure up is a drugged out numbness. Somewhere, some place, some idiot picked a fight with a cop and is getting absolutely brain-fucked by a technician or some set of metal face-wearing sadistic fanboys who have somehow been deemed fit for this shit. All these messy, slow growing fuck piles all mixing together in a sticky, dark stain along the highway.

We have not been able to find the road proper, and there is only one logical explanation for its disappearance from the map. Somebody removed it. While as I read, I make notes about how familiar it is to me, the description i picture causes me to grimace. The area is bleak and desert almost. Mourners crowd the media feeds in attendance, grief stricken and wrapped in self pity. Most of my hairs are grey with age. For the first time in my life I fear death. It's a moment of shattering truths, of truthfall. The cars are smashed to splinters. Shocking? Maybe. Suicidal? Absolutely. Sickly? No. In the ancient hospital I lived in I was old and I didn't know it, I had been mingeing in the hospital as long as I could remember. I had a dead fiancé who killed herself over my pathetic tears for years, but I was a bastard. Then my death bit me, my old self imploded into the ultimate ego death of a burned consciousness. A stark metaphorical display of the quest for self-actualization born of software and processors. A charnel house for those of us who would do well to build the fortifications to repel God's wrath. A soundproof box to keep the noise of entropy on the outside.

Do you see the problem? Do you think it isn't the day you physically die is the same day that the bleeding of your soul will stop? The pain is permanent. It has to be. It cannot be removed with touch or potion or drugs or implants or uploading. It is forever. Perhaps even harder to see, but just as intangible.

I can't tell whether I'm holding a splinters in my bones or if they're all split open. Should; I stop and wait for it to heal, lulling to sleep without the pain and a faint hope that no, indeed, I'm not coming back... I bury myself in a carpet and start rubbing myself raw. Pain. But also a tiny little bit of hope, or slowly damage this body I'm left with by plunging myself deeper into its pustulous maw?

I can't decide what I'm holding. I can see a blackened paw in my hands, oozing goo inside, crunchy shell of an arm, twisted edge and bones. I think it is mine. Pain shoots through my body, and the downpour expands through the horizon. I don't care. I'm off and running. It's so close to me. I squeeze and slowly pull out the arm. It's my arm. It's bloody. The top half is separate and broken off, like the side of a bone with the marrow bored out. I tear it out and pluck out the hard black shaft out of the husk. I can feel its bone, my bones, inside me. There is blood and mud, I think. I can feel it on my hands, too.

The investigators tear at the walls and floors, breaching into houses looking, for anything really. It's pathetic, I know, but I don't see any other way to describe this particular exhibition, except 'scavenging'. The procession includes loads of books, calendars, stuffed animals and toys all coated with metallic rot. Some of the cargo is burned as a way to mark the event of the first attack, burning it doesn't do too much anyways. At least two local report feeds say they have seen evidence that bodies have been dumped elsewhere, outside of the disaster zone. That isn't very surprising, considering. Shrapnel-pocked hospital beds are strewn with mangled limbs and bodies of the dead. Hospitals, schools, homes, shopping centers. It made no difference. As darkness falls, dozens of empty shells fired by rocket-propelled grenades litter the streets in between the dark smears once called biological.

The lack of an official government response has given rise to accusations of an apparent disregard for the civilians under attack.

I HAVE BEEN TRAPPED IN THE LIGHT CELLS THE BEACON TOWER HELP HELP THE GUAR

The Pipevine Department Of Healthcare would like to remind you prematurely ending your life before your appointed death day is considered treason. Not only will successful attempts be circumvented, but strict fines and punishment will also be administered by the Inverted Arbiter after resurrection.

If you are unaware of your appointed death day wear a white scarf to the daily prayer. Thank you for your cooperation.

-Arbiter Tarquinius

I stood atop the tower, not one too tall or too short just one that was able to have a view of what lies beyond. Echoes of hammers and war drums pounded through the streets and open windows.

I paid no mind, for I saw something unnerving. The winds were reduced to dust and rust quickly dissolved anything that stepped outside these lands.

Those who were the indentured servants of these lands were stuck until their sand debt had been paid in full.

We were gods back then, nothing held back our minds from running rampant. The world was your sandbox and there was no bounds to be had. We made stories and mapped worlds without any stopping or after thought. We were the dreamers, but eventually most lose sight of the dream.

The Pipevine department of Agriculture would like to remind you that any progress in linguistics past this point will be considered treason and any violation of this ruling will result in indentured servitude in The Factory.

Thank you for your cooperation.

the people on tv seem to be unbalanced on the tip of mass hysteria, exclaiming their needs and abuses, proclaiming threats or conciliation. opinions are thrown about as if they're indisputable facts, beliefs are shoved up resistant noses and there's an air of brutality surrounding it all.

i'm stumped.

certain of our good lovers and friends pay it little attention. they flick through multiple channels before logging into something ripe on Netflix. or they'll open up to the fateful companion, the sly and seductive In-her-Net. at the peak of my dissociation, i'll join in that escape.

meanwhile, loose lips carry on dissenting. corporal arms are raised in contention. everyone wants to feel satisfied but can't make it last more than a mile. desire is mixed with the brute strength in the air and that's a molotov combination.

i'm in the midst of my own trepidation. and you? i wonder if you feel it too.

everything you do has significance, how you walk, the words you use, the food you eat, the friends you make, the places you go, the gestures you fake, the callous misuse, the music you hear, the entertainment pursued, the lovers revered or severed. all that is you. if you want to know how shallow or deep you actually go, look at the everything of you.

a big breath would be good right about here. i watch his nut-brown silhouette from the corner of my eye and hold in the thoughts trampling the heart in my head. that seems to be significant. heart and mind wrestling with the needs of the other. and my side eye glances over at him, is that a shyness, a shame, or an opportunity to be coy?

significance is no easy affair.

i take a gulp of burnt coffee and my stomach turns.

don't judge or condemn or analyze it. you're just taking a look at the mystery of you. this isn't an exercise in right or wrong, it's not a formula to follow, there are no rules that you need to break or beliefs you need to exchange. it's the meaning of 'to be aware.'

i feel my body posing, and a pre-arranged expression moves into the curves of my face. i'm suddenly aware of what i am loathe to expose and my gut takes another turn.

a thing as insignificant as that telling me i'm terrified of being mediocre.

when did we become this delusion?

she has a slow walk, more of an undulation, and i marry my pace to hers. her question comes as no surprise, she has this habit of throwing from left field. one of those quirks that tie me to her.

what delusion? the one that she's built around what she believes? the one that i cultivate through my conceit? or the one that we are when she looks at me?

there's an ice-cream shop on the corner near the house where we live. on a thick day like this, it's just what i need. something uncompromising and cold. that's real, i say. nothing 'bout that to forgive.

she has a quick laugh, always ready to roll out, and it clears the unseen around us. i get the vanilla, she's all about chocolate, and that's really the only difference between us.

the madness is pulling me into nevermore.

we walked the inner city last night, toasting our thoughts with each other. the vagrant acts of streetwise people didn't really get in the way. annoying, but nothing we couldn't forgive. our hands burrowed deep in our pockets, jiggling real coins and remnant fluff, and we laughed at things that don't matter and we hurt for times that get rough.

the madness is shaping every contour.

we jump on a bus headed cross town, another ill-planned getaway. passengers are moist from the packed atmosphere while we make the most of their warmth. this global cold changes social rules. we wrap our arms around one another and whisper ungodly prayers we hope some invincible magic will hear. we promise not to give up, despite toxic indifference everywhere.

the madness is flooding the world at my door.

the boy takes an ordinary day and stuffs it into his back pocket. the walls of his barren room sweat with his loneliness and the fan on the ceiling threatens. any moment, he thinks, it will shred him.

the morning is empty.

outside he meets old feelings, good ones he thought passed him by. the lonely shade covering his true eyes fades just enough so he sees. the ocean is languid with summer heat, the trees are a cool forest green, the air clips his skin with a soft bit of breeze and the fount of his youth flows free.

the morning is happy.

from a distance he sees a schoolmate approach, the one with bulky rage stuffed in his pocket. lonely and angry collide.

the two huddle over a spoon and a flame as an ordinary morning slides by.

the killing of all i believe should be easy, she thinks as she moves through another thick day. the stripping of me down to naked energy should be as simple as unlabored breathing. and the ripping up of my insatiable heart should be as quick as its breaking.

she stores these pristine thoughts in the shape of her soul and keeps her body moving.

what i really need is the thunder of God or a strike of insensitive sunshine. or maybe a storm collapsing over my bed, or lightning burning through the grief in my head. perhaps if i look at the particles of me, they'll dance into a refurbished alignment. perhaps if i drown the voice making its rounds inside the curves of my ears, i'll hear something true from the silent ground.

killing me should be as sublime as that, she thinks as she carves words on the sum of her soul.

The City. I haven't been here in some time.

Wrapped in black fatigues and behind my respirator, no-one can discern my identity. As if anyone would still recognize me anyway, even if we hadn't disappeared. Good... that fact makes this easier.

Images flash through my mind...

I crash through the window, cutting my descension line and landing in the tiny, filthy apartment with my carbine up and ready. He stands over her, his arm raised and that blasted leather cudgel in his clenched fist; he's been beating her again. As they turn to meet the intruder, I set my weapon aside and step forward to meet him like a man. He swings... I duck and weave... I outmaneuver, then strike. He falls. I give the woman I have saved a wink, then grab my rifle and dash for the window, leaping out in as a dramatic an exit as my entrance.

... but then reality asserts itself.

I boot the door open and enter with my carbine up. Sure enough, the two of them are going at it, bent over the filthy couch. He still has his cudgel, though he's not striking her... just another power play. I can see granola crumbs falling from her lips as they fornicate.

I don't give them any time to react. A quick spray of suppressed fire, and they both go down; it's all over in seconds. I stride over and fire four more neat, tidy shots: one each for their heads and hearts. My job done, I turn and leave, feeling a strange sense of calm descend over me as I depart the nightmarish place.

... it's done.

... gods, it's done. It's finally over.

...

... no. It's not over yet... but th'worst has passed. Pilot: take me 'ome.

At least the traffic's okay.