Williston Humperdinkle lent himself a seat near the crossing sigil. A little sigh here, and shaking limbs there his whole suit was wrinkled. The strange night air caged his tongue and fingers, scared. The sky was bare, the weather was fair but snow was falling everywhere. Yes, snow was falling in his hair.
LA was strange like farms and free range; conspiracies of the universally deranged. No, man could gauge today, even here soaked in beer he couldn't say. What a play, what a stage, is what Williston Humperdinkle wanted to say.
Browned ivory, matted hair, breath as the newborn mare. What a way to watch the world end, alone and cold just like the hare.
It was October of 2058 and Amazon had just completed it's purchase of the last fresh water source in the world, the Baikal in Russia. Williston had also just completed his last bottle of Vision water. A dead brand of water from about a decade ago that attempted the idea of sustainability by making ocean water drinkable. Ironically their own idea was the opposite of sustainable as humanity grieved it's largest water source into a chicken soup of grime and insoluble salt. The water bottle was like a small wooden barrel with 2 eyes engraved on it sitting along it's length. The eyes were soft and sharp. Will assumed they were a woman's. Maybe because he had grown attached to the defunct water company and hope the woman who bottled these would know he had savored each one to the last drop. That all of those
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Humperdinkle
RomancePumpernickel, wafts in the rain and leads you to a bakery of shame:
