Sickened smog trembles on the horizon, smelling of brimstone, same as always. They sip and wait, slowly, slowly sip and wait.
Author: Oliver Baker
There I was, crouched like a cat with my palms to the concrete, trying to make out my reflection in the gray puddles since the pain was too searing to swallow. In my pocket I had four useless aspirin, one expired credit card, and five and a half nauseating cigarettes. And no water.
When all division disappeared
In three words