I see your prompt, and raise you a poem that has nothing to do with it. Please enjoy:

When the end of days arrive,

By Macaulay Macaulay Culkin Culkin, will the chaos drive.

When magma springs from sacred rock,

To the bunkers the quackery shall flock.

Ding Ding Ding

And through the ‘sapien bare land and fog,

A man with a triangle has but a single job.

Though his sight was such a shock

He began t...

They’d agreed to meet by the creek at dusk, but Florence wasn’t sure she would make it in time. She couldn’t see more than a few yards in front of her and had already toppled over several roots and shrubs that sprouted at her feet. Brambles snagged at her clothes and skin, and trees looked ominously out of the fog and gloom. What little vision she had was clouded by her breath forming clouds befor...