I must’ve smoked the wrong cigarette. It’s bad enough that I was in a funk the whole morning, so I thought I’d take my medicine to make it feel better. I’m not depressed, per say, just indifferent to a point where I don’t care about anything. Up until today I believed that medical marijuana was this wonderful, magic plant that cures all ailments, but that’s bullshit. Most people who use it just wanna get high, they don’t wanna do anything to alleviate their misery. Once the high wears off and the pink elephants stop marching, the funk comes back and they smoke another bowl, sit on the couch, and eat more garbage food.
It is alleged that only a madman would believe such heresies to common logic that are written in this tale. In a world ignorant of its past, all of the tell-tale signs, monoliths dedicated to pagan worship within the city’s ancient inhabitants demolished by power-hungry iconoclasts are plastered on every building new and old; all signs of the universe that lie many fathoms beneath the asphalt-laden earth, of inhuman beings who were vanquished by their greatest enemy, the alien race of mankind. They are a diverse lot, many of whom live like outcasts reveling in Sodom, others having morphed into more feral beasts lingering below, feasting upon whatever living meat they could sink their fangs into, and others who still to this day, after thousands of years, await the day they could wage war on the world above and conquer the earth they once inhabited in freedom. Their transition into the sunlit world varies to this day, perhaps due to their intolerance of the light, or their physical weakness outdone by the might of creatures above them. But what is clear is that they still plague the sewers and tombs underground, breeding like pigeons and waiting, just waiting for the day they will infest the city like viruses and drink the blood of gods.
The city is a different place