I hate this town, these fields; this flatness, and a heavy horizonless sky that comes smothering down like a blanket of gas, like a burden of guilt. There's nothing here but dark nights and dull mornings, and a wall-eyed greyness like water-bleached bones inbetween. Out there in the half-light nameless faces are farming emptiness, treading the soil until the shadows come tearing up through the cracks. Words do not survive for long in this atmosphere; they emerge as grudgingly as teeth through iron gums, and once they have torn out a reluctant hole in the air they rust and decay, scarring and hardening into silent hurt.
I hate every ragged fragment of it, and it does not notice, and I would hate that most of all if I had the will to do so.