We are the ancients that people will wonder about in a thousand years.

Lying naked in bed, eating grapes

with a cat in the corner.

A mosaic that overlays the underbelly of this settler-colony in decay.

We witness the fall of the Republic, and I pray empire does not live on.

2024 C.E. experiences Black Plague, the Crusades, and World War III at the same time, and more.

I come from the land of blood and guns.

I come from the land of advertisement and renter’s insurance.

I come from the land of road kill and beggar’s trails.

Desecration everywhere.

Lead in the water, God knows what in the food.

Road signs that read, “do not feed the homeless,”

but, “cash for Diabetic strips.”

Crumbs of bottle caps and bullet shells that lead to the corner store!

I don’t come from the land, I come from a wastescape on top of lands, stolen.

I inherit a state of genocide and slavery that will salt the fields of history and burden the forests of culture for generations.

The digital age is going dark, and we have forgotten how to use fire.

I shall write this letter on a wind-blown piece of plastic, using a pungent Sharpie,

so futures know the story not etched into stone by our overlords.