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    The broad, tall woman in a vault suit (supposedly ‘Clara Texas,’ even though she claims the tattoo on her ass just says ‘TEX,’whatever the heck kind of a name that is) passes her new hireling a handful of caps and their fingertips touch in the process. She thinks nothing of it, and he thinks even less.


    They say that time spent is time wasted when you let the days crawl on without a purpose, without a real rallying cause to believe in, but a crisis of meaning that burns slow often goes unnoticed by the person having it. Something deep red like that pales to white next to brutal epiphanies about rotten food and dirty water.

    Waste is everything around her.

    Waste is what he doesn't know how to do.

    Waste is a tale of survival, more than it is an exercise in romantic arcs. Waste is coming to terms with oneself without the support of a dead world.

    Waste is learning that the self, as she knows it, has not ceased to exist in this new life.


    03 Dec 2015