Your next-door neighbour wandered into the street, calmly detaching piece after piece of herself, until she lay strewn across the road, softly singing.
Everything west of the river is just a montage of photo-realistic flat shapes — as you walk along the bank, you can start to glimpse between and beyond them. Nobody who crosses the bridge has come back.
All the electricity pylons sprouted wings and strutted away like ugly herons, their snapped and writhing cables fraying into showers of grass snakes. The electricity is still working, but if you hold your ear to a wire, you can hear it whispering.
Science has abandoned you, but you still have your wits, your own two hands, and your hot friends.
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