The coat of green paint on the garage doors is unblemished, comparatively fresh, the dark windows unbroken, though the way is blocked by an established swathe of woody nightshade, exuberantly sprawling across the concrete driveway leading into the road. Lush spear-tipped leaves, dusted with a light coating of silver, are offset by vivid purple starfish flowers & swollen clutches of blood-clot-scarlet berries dotted through the undergrowth. The concrete’s in the process of being chopped into geometric blocks, colonies of scentless mayweed thriving in the resultant gaps: which is cause, & which effect, I refuse to determine.
That our future’s ruins prove as elegant as this.
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