Where, then, did the Flood begin?
If I didn't know better, I'd assume you were antagonizing me. What kind of a question is that?
Let's pretend, for a moment, that there was no fault. That this place was clean, and not so intentional, and let's run into the streets, for, although the cars are not yet gone, the thrill of danger keeps us human. It is here, on bloody pavement, where we can fall to our knees and blame lost balance rather than lost purpose. Where we have paved over clean earth and not allowed ourselves to touch the dirt any longer in fear that, as it rains and loosens, we may sink. This road becomes a vector by which intent is conveyed and expressed in space and time by machine. We have created a path with the sole function of preventing ourselves from walking upon it.
So let's dance instead.
Let's dance where you held your own hand and ran into the snow. Ran by houses whose lights were on, and where you could see inside, and you could see a warmth so similar and so alien, and in a completely different shape. Where you ran into the woods in the dark, seeing nothing and knowing even less. Letting the red light of the polluted sky tell you to go, and letting a misconception tell you to stay. That's where you remained, then, letting the dark envelop you and bite with a cold that was yours and yours alone, all because, for the first time, you were standing at the start, and fate was standing at the end.
This is where the Flood began, leaking through the concrete and beading on the shingles like red dew. I think you already knew that, though. I think its time to move on.