Tiny flying tents
I see tiny flying tents all over the place. Most of them are abandoned. Some are occupied. Some are full of people. All are full of life. It is morning, and the sun is coming up. I think to myself, “It’s time to get going.” I glance to the north, and there’s a farm, but it’s not my farm. I know that. I know that it’s not my farm because I’m in my city. I can feel it. I know it. I know that I’m in a city because now I’m flying over it. The buildings are all there, but the street is completely gone, and even the buildings in the center of my city are missing parts. I don’t know how long I’ve been flying. Now I am here. I used to go swimming here. Clear and fresh and lonely.