Desolation is my life. It is the musty air I breathe and the sound I listen to. Silence beats in my heart, blooming and receding with my blood. Bodies clutter the empty streets and fertilize the open, grassy fields. They lie, bloated and bubbling, in lakes, and wash up on the coast. Animal or human, no matter, for their souls are all in heaven, have all left their shells with me in this blackened place. I wish for nothing more than a single rose, for a simple moment of sweet-smelling bliss to provide true contrast to the immeasurable stench of rot. I am the sole survivor, lucky only in the shred of light left in my eyes, gulp of oxygen in my throat. I wish to join the dead, to become my own faceless, nameless corpse, but my soul knows its purpose. Killer, killer, it sings to me, and I know the whispers ring out as the only truth still left. This is my life now. This is my hell.
May 2, 2011