his back was killing him,
the road had evened out but he still carried those hills. rolling, like him, except you don't roll a bike.
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you push them, and that's what he did. the bike was a bad call but he didn't want to leave it to die. it may still be loved, but maybe not. the training wheels help, they allow independence without much risk. there are birds circling ahead, he holds his breath.
the slime bubble farts. it is spread thin, it must have come from orbit. they do very well in space. they say a goldfish never stops growing, they are leviathan.
kessler effected motor oil rain burns a planet bare over years, they concentrate into autonomous spills.
they become new problems.
they are omnivores with hundreds of mutations for novel food stores. singularity driven, it offers nothing in return, all that is consumed is completely destroyed.
anti matter jelly roombas from acid snot nebula hive hungers.
he might need to run, not fast, just faster than molasses. it's not hard unless you stop for a while. standing still is death. they stick together and adapt, fed orders on sunbeams filtered through chromatic puddings.
they want something, they must, because sometimes they act strangely. they sing and make lights, like haunted whale songs. they trend westward. corrosive destiny.
the bike gives him an edge on hilltops, he can ride side saddle, but his knees rise too high above pedals.
asphalt plucked fragile flesh like wild flowers. road rash blooms in spreading crimson sensation.
he ditches the bike, apologizing quickly but meaningfully. he sets a jog, he'll need to hunker down for a couple of days. he's exhausted, but time waits for no man and the future calls.
grindset radio calms him down, it is all that brings him southwest. he has forgotten his plan already. he does not know where he walks, or that it waits for him.
chromatic waves color the sky burning purple, the stars are smeared halogen bulbs.
the world is being devoured at scale
i was inspired by a table in this game to write this.
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