I walk on plains grey as ash, the dirt striped as if cultivated, sewn. And under skies black and red, space indistinguishable from cloud, yet the blackness as bright as a rainy day. There is no day or night. Just perpetually somewhere between.
The dead wander, withering gradually, aging like a house left abandoned and forgotten, undisturbed. Collecting dust and drying out as they wander. As we wander. No hostility. No interaction. Just an understanding. Acknowledgement only in the form of the occasional pitiful glance and nod. Walking as if dragging something immensely large and heavy behind them, but just burden. Exhaustion. A faint breeze blows yet the dust clings to us. Most of them wearing what were once elegant clothes, now torn and barely recognizable as anything but finely-textured rags.
The atmosphere is not so dead as the colour. Sadness lingers. Like this world is a place where we come to grieve. Like that moisture and subtle electric feeling in the air is from the tears that soak the ground and evaporate, turning back into the rain when even the universe itself can't help but to break down. And yet in that we feel so much better as it washes away the grime. A cycle of sorrow that gradually cleanses itself. Yet there are new visitors all the time, all through time. An endless flow of misery producing the tears.
The cycle progresses but never ends.