“You got anything for me?” she asks. Business. That’s all we have left. It’s all we know how to do.

“Afghanistan,” I say. “There’s buzz at the Ukrainian consulate about an incursion to steal half a million in opium and military gold at that deal that’s about to go down, the one with the people, and that guy with the thing.”

How are you doing? I am well. Last weekend I was not well, in fact I was vomiting my face off for a while, and that is why there is no post from last weekend.

The city’s banning plastic shopping bags this month. What’s she going to keep her scaly things in then? She can’t stand paper: too flimsy; falls apart in the rain, and it’ll rain all of March, more than likely. Maybe that’s what she does all day: wanders the city, finding plastic shopping bags and storing them inside other plastic shopping bags, till she has enough to last her from now till Armageddon.

Walking into the smoldering wreckage had all the appeal of walking into my own private mausoleum. It was all gone. What was the point of getting our hands dirty digging in the wreckage? Galatia Gardens was gone, just like all the cities on Earth were going, some slowly, some not so. I thought about what would happen if we all just stayed where we were, sitting, until moss covered over us, and then after a while all the traces of humanity would be gone from the planet.