Flit scribbles in a tattered notepad, it's stained from tears and wounds and is filled with useless scribbles documenting in an attempt to hold onto Humanity.
'There used to be flying food you could hunt here, you could watch them circle and find where the wallets were. Mainlanders never were very good at stayin alive long.
I remember roasting the legs - the buzzards, not the Outlanders - on a fuel can, late at night in the junkyard tunnels. Those are all caved in now, cept a few pockets.
I'll starve here. I need protein, can't live off fuckin grubs...'
Her pen leaves the paper momentarily and plays about her lips. She butts out her soggy make-shift cigarette by dropping it and smearing her foot across the crumbling concrete letting some of the aggressive energy out. She pulls a lint battered grub from her pocket and tosses it into her mouth chewing twice. The consistency of the larvae is repugnant. She can't handle it and spits it out onto the pavement scoffing.
'I knew there was trouble when them vultures done flew off
...when the buzzards don't even come round no more.....
it's time to go.'