You could imagine that the surface of the earth beyond the collision of the fraying borders has been crumpled by the pressure exerted from the smoothing of the flatlands. There are doughy peaks that rise like desert bread from steep troughs, the surface etched thinly by circuitous routes.
Stone is thrown up from amongst the milled powder of quarries, and adheres to the surface of buildings that mark space, and reproduce radially like barnacles clinging to the hulls of distant ships.
Fine particles of dust lash through the open windows of vehicles that crunch over the pin-striped roughened road surfaces, to slow descent.
The air has cooled off here from the swelter, and there is a strong wind that gusts through open doors, knocking untethered things over onto the grey grime that gathers on the floor, and carbon copies our footprints.
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