Work In Progress

(Contains words not suitable for young people)

I sit here in something I wouldn't even consider a hole. It's only just lower than ground level. Not deep enough for water to accumulate in, but deep enough to provide comfort for my arse. Before, I would sit on a perfectly level floor and think nothing of it. I knew I had a comfortable settee or swivel chair to retreat to if I needed to ride out the pins and needles in my legs, once my arse cheeks went numb. Now though, there is nothing comfortable. Just the ground. Toxic, polluted ground. Toxic polluted, uneven toxic asphalt. Toxic, uneven, polluted fucking bits of concrete and wire and plastic and glass.

I stick to the towns and villages whenever I can, or what's left of them.
The air eats away at everything. Nothing is immune. My fucking lungs burn on every intake of what used to be air. I seriously consider not exhaling for fear of inhaling. My bastard lungs burn.
I am lucky I was underground when the light came, I kid to myself. My arms are raw, blistered to shit. My hands, I am missing a finger on each hand. Ha, that's nothing. What's the point of an index finger when you've got nothing and no one to point at?.
They went last month. I was hungry. I learned after I woke up that it was still possible to hold stuff with those fingers gone. It kept me alive. I am here now. Was it a month ago?. The days and nights are gone too. It doesn't matter. It's the same colour day and night. I think. I don't sleep much. I can't. I am too fucking hungry. Seconds blur and merge into minutes, minutes into fucking aeons. It could of all happens today. There is nothing. Just me. I am so hungry. I can't breathe, what the fuck am I breathing. Who was that?.