.photographs of me. There’s smoke still hanging in the air; lurking low and white, like a Frisco fog but thicker ‘cept where the air blows it in long stringy threads like sour milk drifting in the sink water. It’s a throw-away zone thing. It stinks of oil and sulfur and hot tar bubbling in summer; ‘cept it ain’t summer. You’d think that stuff that burnt in winter would smell like the sides of Cali cliffs in flame wouldn’t ya? Doesn’t though. There’s no incense scent to it. No tight wound drift of pot, or myrrh or pretty pine Christmas trees piled up and flaming after collection. It’s a seething slurry of bad industry burning.
People are standing round in twos and threes watching it as little ash whirlwinds dance spirals in the heat that's still hanging onto hot spots. It’s warm enough now, just above 0 degrees C, that the water they’d pumped is wet on charred
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