winter withered, warm
Put its own words through it. Territorialize its voice.
improvement on originalThe car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel, and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides, and a dark wind blows. The government is corrupt and we're on so many drugs, with the radio on and the curtains drawn. We're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is bleeding to death. The sun has fallen down, and the billboards are all leering, and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles.
And then you see it: a light. A bright, shining light that comes from the sky, like an angel descending from heaven. And you know that this is your chance. This is your moment. You can either run or fight, but not both. You look around for something to grab onto—a piece of wreckage? A body? Something? But there isn't anything. There's nothing here except darkness and silence. Then you hear it again: the voice of God. It calls out to you through the darkness, calling you back home. It speaks of how it has seen you here, seen what you've done. It's calling you to judgment. It's too late to run. It's too late to fight. It's too late to hide. It's too late to pray. It's too late for everything. But then, just as the voice is about to consume you, you see the bright light again. It grows stronger and stronger until you can feel its heat on your back. Then, just as suddenly, it's gone. The fire is out and the car's safe, and there's no driver or any other survivors, but you're still here. You haven't moved. You're still standing here in the middle of the wreckage, soaked with gasoline and blood. The night is cold and the sky is dark.