I am man, perishing, the living dead. I nod to the white summer sky smiling at me, catching my breath. The sultry salt wind, pungent with black sea foam, fills my lungs with death, cleansing from me the stench of decaying concrete cities. I am adrift alone in the dread ocean, on a vessel swaying and rocking. The sea is heavy with bloated death matter of once-man things, blasted in all directions of the infinite tar expanse.
As I stroll the heaving deck of the decaying ship, fear begins to nestle in my mind. Waves assail the pitiful vessel from all sides, growing heavier by the second. Their height nigh reaches the edge of the bow. The ocean raged towards my existence or perhaps to the rusting construct cruising through the dense black liquid. The churn of boiling tar and the popping of thick oily bubbles overwhelm my senses. Ominous, heralding the end as if it is my death toll, which it is.
What remained of the horizon was simply a rolling surge of skyscraper-tall oblivion liquid, as if sensing the enormous anomaly clipping into its realm of should-be nothingness and death. For this vessel and I are alike, a blank piece of canvas, yet untouched, surrounded by landscapes painted only in oblivion. But soon it shall blot me and this sinking ship like spilled ink upon parchment.