The Southern Trail

"The metal here... it screams. Not from wind or stress, but from devotion. The machines didn't stop building when the people left. They kept going. Stacking gears on gears, pipes on pipes, building a monument to their own perpetual motion."

I saw it through the smog. A tower of rust and chrome that touches the acid clouds. They are worshiping it. Offering it scrap. The percussion of the pistons is their prayer.