David Honeywell is outside. It’s cold and there is a light haze in the air. The mist from the morning is clearing. David walks forward on a crumbling path, half tarmac, half dirt. He notices a tattered American flag with the Union Jack inset on the top left corner, flat in a ditch that is also filled with shallow grimy water.
David Honeywell is outside looking at a world that was blown up. His bones are crumbling and his eyes are bleeding.
David Honeywell is outside watching the drones pick over the desolate landscape for raw materials to take back to the Trump Compound – a place that used to be called Texas but is now a walled bio-dome exclusive for rich people to survive and prosper in the ravaged present. There is a clear admission criteria.
The future is open wide;
David Honeywell is outside.