Centralia. Which, these days, is just buckling asphalt and crumbling sidewalks savagely overgrown, and above which presides a pristine white church making false promises to a town that can never exist again. Nothing can live here anymore, even if you think nothing is enough, even if you are used to having to make yourself small. To have everything foundational and sacred about yourself eroded. To be encroached upon by creeping vines and detritus others leave behind. You will be left behind. To be just another bad fucking clapboard house, leaning, bones knocked out, hole in every wall, paint peeling until you collapse. Or are razed. Abandonment and dereliction. Soggy and forlorn. Life is a song, but the raging fires of Hell burn long.
