Scrap metal shacks dot the barren landscape.
Scraps of the fallen society huddle within them.
Scraps of wood burn to keep them warm.
Scraps and scrapes have scarred their flesh over the hard years.
Scrap parts repair scrapped weapons to protect the wanderers.
Scraps of food are more valuable than gold.
Scrap flesh and scrap blood remain of victims.
Scrap laws left over from the days when they could be enforced.
Scraps of rope to hang the guilty.
Scraps to be shared among the ones who live.
Scrap men thrown off to the waste piles.

I keep dreaming of a life on the move. A wandering existence within the carcass of a ruined world. Unreliable firearms and hardwood clubs as I travel on the fringes of a scavenger society. An outsider in a cruel world who is driven to a desperate and vengeful act. A criminal and outlaw in a world which has no laws or government to speak of.

Then the signs of rebirth are there. A nation from the ashes. I know my sins will not let me be a part of the new world.

So, I roam.