Trying to get a bead on the New Year in the atemporal landscape of the end of the world.
The puma leave the bones behind to bleach next to the trail, reminding you to give them their space.
You sleep in a shelter folded into the hill, like a wing built by cargo cultists with advanced degrees.
You try to see the summits of the torres through the clouds, and glimpse a future where new modes of deferentially weaving our lives into planetary wonder are more evenly distributed.
The Committee to Nuke Elysium 