the sky is moving like a slow death. red spreads over the horizon as the bleeding sun fades in its waning glory. thick, hazy clouds sprawl in the foreground. smoke coming from chimneys and the smokestacks of factories

chokes the onlookers. and we die with the falling sun.

the clouds get darker and darker, and the streets rest. empty with abandoned cars, doors ajar, and echoes of babies screaming.

there has been a massacre here, but there is nothing and no one left to tell the tale.