O thou of little faith! What profit hath thy preparation
From crawling through the filth and mire
On All Hallows Eve? The shadows lie
More thickly on the street than usual,
And the smell of vomit is strong in the air.
But still I go, unwilling to leave
This dismal place: it is my only fan
Of breath in this oppressively hot air.
O unhappy city! How canst thou still be
A dwelling-place of man? The dead,
Who walk the streets on All Hallows Eve,
Know not the bitter taste of this morrow's ale.
This was a tale from the city of Lazarus. A dystopian metropolis half sunken in the sea. War and climate change took its toll on this and every other city we know. This is one short tale of a young woman and her daily life surviving in the ruble of the modern world.