Traveling toward the outskirts of Fiorillaville, one goes through a ghastly grid of undeveloped sections, twisting streets with partially constructed dwellings long abandoned. Rust never sleeps, and armies of cloned terrormites feast amid the ruins. Beyond the grid, the once beautiful fields of jimflora have been devastated by ravenous Rotbeetles, and it is here that celery stalks at midnight. Within the thornmaze, no bellybirds sing. Lurking in the shadows of the wistful wisteria is doleful Andy Autumn. If you see him from the corner of your peripheral vision, then you know summer in Fiorillaville is finally over at long last.
2 comments:
I miss the bellybirds' song.
-John McClain
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