The floor is solid metal in some places and metal grating in others. Everything smells like rotting garbage and fire.
"Don't say I never took you anywhere nice," Peter says.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say. ↗
Garbage Is, always. We will die, civilization will crumble, life as we know it will cease to exist, but trash will endure, and there it was on the street, our ceaselessly erected, ceaselessly broken cenotaphs to ephemera and disconnection and unquenchable want. ↗