I live in a nameless town, even beyond your regular daily mundane. A writer’s paradise and a dystopia. An oxymoron is what this nameless town is.

The summer’s sweltering heat shimmers on the road I drive. I close my eyes and imagine snow, but the heat, it gets in everywhere, like a slithering snake, like a raging army of ants, like a murder of infamous crows. The green around me withers to sepia then to the colour of the earth and on the slightest touch crinkles and crumbles into fine dust. Desolation takes over the hot shimmering asphalt roads and the long glassy mirage begs to be released from the deathly coils of this incessant and eternal heat. The sun is no more that nourishing, warm, orange flat disk in the sky, but rather a nuclear flash burning, seething and perpetually angry.
Every soul, human and otherwise, begs, cries and wails to be released from this damnation, from this surreal dream, dreamt by Dante himself.

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