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She noticed her physical discomfort from a distance, her self tiny and numb inside of her skin.
Dust motes, set wild by Dune’s labor, caught in the beams, the only motion.
It was sticky hot, all the windows were open in gummy sills, fans twisting their necks in every doorway.
She had gone to visit her daughter in Wisconsin for a few weeks and missed the start of the apocalypse.
He’d put small black flags on each spot when its time was done, tasting the memories.
There were fat, slow bees hovering, tasting; dragonfly pairs mating midair. Dune wondered if they were enemies now, carriers.
Dune also noticed the ways in which Detroit was obstinately itself. No one stopped at red lights, just slowed down and rolled on through.
Who had life to waste waiting at these uncontested lights?
Most of the time it felt like she had too much happening in her head to get it coherent in her mouth.
she appreciated that the boundaries indulged her persistent need for solitude.
Theories rooted and dispersed in her, dandelions seeking proof and then, poof, on the wind.
the virus a spiraling, bleak art.
The colder it got, the shorter these stolen days would be, the whispering space between life and death.
Turning towards or away was one of the simplest expressions of being alive. Deer turned towards predators, babies turned towards the breast, flowers turned towards the sun. Dune wondered again: what was it that could snatch so much essence out of a person that they were less motivated to survive than a flower?
Detroiters are persistent when it comes to surviving the impossible.
as they left behind their bodies like snake skin.
Today the decaying glamour was unsettling, a dry Titanic.
