ian lambert

A Requiem Lost, A Requiem Found.

The Sun blew no whistling winds on the fated husk that was once his home. Indeed, if he were to be observant and had the proclivity to do so, he could even see the ashy particulates hang in the air like dust balls in an old western. The roads that winded into town lay barren now, as did the dilapidated houses which sat like bloated corpses in that sea of humidity. Paint flaked on the picket fences, Rusty nails protruded from vacant doorways, broken concrete littered roads like the pox.