An amazing, dead Hunger slithers through cavernous city streets. Gloops and globs of oily, black snails’ trails and primal palm prints form perfect, cinematic evidence of the mindless living thing. Cars that rest on their own shattered windshields beep and boom, unable to right themselves like turtles turned on their shells. Holes like bowls, crispy and dusty, reminders of what was lost, what was gobbled up by the unsustainable greasy void, the dark-worshiper, the indiscriminate devourer, the Hunger.
Bleary, morning eyes scan stained, rumbled confirmations of nighttime creepy crawlies. The broken, bent street lights shooting sparks that sprinkle vehicles, the torn fire hydrants, gashed in the centre, water spitting from the jagged, red, metal mouth and the evidence of vanished street dwellers. A lonely pink stiletto lying on graffiti marked street corner or the unfinished black hind of a street mongrel. Police torches throw light in every empty corner, in the eyes of drunken, sleepy hobos, under bridges spanning dried riverbeds and rubbished canals. But the Hunger has migrated forward, following the night under oceans and over land, an unrelenting monster, a swelling cavity.