This world feels unfinished, like the paint hasn’t quite dried. I walked for miles across an old lava flow. It was all thick, black rock, churned and spit out from a crack in the crust of the planet. It froze mid-stream, making it easy to imagine the rock sliding across the Earth and cooling even as I stepped over it.
The whole world felt sharp and edgy, made of rocks naive to the world, fresh. Time hadn’t worn it down, smoothed its edges, blunted its spirit.
I hope it never does.