The air is thick with the smell of smoke, a pleasant smell of burnt pine flows in the wind.
It is the smell of campfires and pleasant days, although, when I smell it now, in the midst of the city proper; where the sky between me and the skyscrapers above is thick and white where it usually stands clear; this smell heralds a different memory.
To the west, forests burn, and have burned for many days, their charred corpses falling eastward, nothing but smoke on the wind.
I bask in a pleasant memory.
The world burns.
