Blood covered the ground around him. Smoke still drifted from discarded weapons. Corpses lay strewn across the muddy ground,

It was a cold and desolate street.
Wind blew the rubbish in circles.
The man was wandering, deep in thought.

The street was totally deserted, the ground strewn with litter.

The man whose suit itched against his skin, wandered deep in thought.

Birds chirped, wind ripped through the top of the trees. People shouted and laughed. Cassettes wined and chains rattled. The crank of gear changes echo around the forest.

All hope was lost after the planets ecology collapsed.

It was a bright and cold day in April. The clocks were striking thirteen. Winston smith had his chin nuzzled into his breast. He did this in an effort to escape the vile wind. He slipped quickly through the glass door of Victory Mansions. He was not quick enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering with him.



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