When depleted uranium resin clogs every bowel on the planet, we will all be mollkins. The desert will just keep expanding, warping or destroying the lines of life it crosses. Time itself will slow, dripping white stains across the skyline. Dark clouds of dust and ash swirl endlessly- (Narrative Bleed), but there can be no rain. There is a strange beauty in the death of everything. A crazy way to learn that you are immortal , when everyone else dies and the world is a greasey ash covered waste, it's time to flip to a new channel. "Beams cross lost frost causts" the Black Feathered Rook croaked out of its odd beak with a white band, "there is already another job in full swing."