FAKE LONDON BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN

in the city of virgil where our story takes place are a bunch of gray dwarfed shrubs with its ignorant property owners. its just the only place to find water bond athletes, an evidence of nature in a world frozen, trees with snow atop them, a rain forest if one was in for a hiking trail. that hiking trail is desserted because it has suffered four homocides in just two years. around stoktown, where we see a lone taurus drive are empty waybenches and closed stores. at night they are colorful, these motels, brewery houses, groceries, autostores, so they go. the woman in the taurus pauses her lips when she sees some expensive jewelry and hoped someday she would get one when savings developed. she crosses kindlelight, circles the physique of a harstebeest and an atlantis blue lake. the woman hears and smells the waterfall pounding on the rocks. she drives past broken sidewalks, more unmowed lawns. the wind lifts a newspaper to her windshield. she hunks at it as if its a human being. "all it takes is to put trash bags." her car is an old junker alright, its not been cleaned for a while, she remembere as she sniffs.