To walk through an abandoned record store and hear echoes from trashed vinyl in liquid black fortresses along the floor. Rewinding an old mixtape, the squeal of the tape badgering the walls while a ransacked bus tumbles out front with gastric fumps pumping and pulsing from its heated carborater steaming out of the rubber vinyl wheels it rolls on tracing abandoned LP labels through the city.

To see an apocalyptic future of a city ahead of the others, ashen acacia trees lining the blocks while cherry blossom coals float down to fire hydrants and idle. This would be bliss as bliss as thorny white waves tumbling onto thickety tin cottages sunken into a poverty stricken Atlantis of leftist surfers and drug addicts. To see a city enflamed with a spark it tried to stop out would be bliss, for no longer would it have to live in fear of sunken cities and hell-bound tornados marching through deserts of Texas being burned by an unseen climate change. Scorched winds abound with debris encircle us, and we look upon the damage we avoided.