Like these graves ours may go unmarked. I can't ridge it back again from char. Not one board left. Only ash a cat explores and shattered glass smoked black and strung about from the explosion I believe in the reports. A damn shame.
Nothing dies as slowly as a scene.
Although I know in time the lake will send wind black enough to blow it all away. You might come here Sunday on a whim. Say your life broke down. The last good kiss you had was years ago. You walk these streets laid out by the insane, past hotels that didn't last, bars that did, the tortured try of local drivers to accelerate their lives.