hth, hth@lemmy.world

You keep wandering. Resting on the ledge of a trashcan you see a cracked BIC lighter. The inner canister is unbroken and still has some fluid left, so you pocket it. The prospect of surviving in this place brings a coldness to your chest and an adrenaline spike to your blood.

One thing’s certain: there’s trash everywhere. It’s the sort of place that makes you feel like you need a shower just to get the stench off.

Looking around, you quickly realize that there are many similar scribbled notes lying all around. In fact, every piece of trash in the vicinity, it seems, has the same question scribbled on it, each with a different day in recent history.

You walk through the desolate streets of New York, dust and building rubble all around you. Evidence of a bygone community that once existed here.