This is a wasteland of death. From the earth, filled with corpses, grasses spout. Death becomes life becomes death becomes life. It’s not a new concept by any means, but here, in this strangely silent place, the barriers between the living and the dead feel thinner than ever.

There’s a building up ahead, a cyclone of crows spiral above it reaching thousands of feet into the air. They move in rings, each layer in the opposing direction to those above and below them. More rings and cycles. More circles.

Perhaps you could just dissolve here. Perhaps to be formless would be better than to be of form. Perhaps it’s time to move on as something different.