The Un-crime

This place is dead. Existence could have only been a familiar concept in a foreign distance with an elusive, dangerous bridge. Destination could have been possible, perhaps destination was extremely possible, forces known, yet unmeasured to the radically simple and overt contradictory difficult. Nonetheless, this place is dead. Rotting away posed no threat, just as death poses no threat to fear, and, death. Never will this place bloom, or transition to a peak season, or endure stages of downpour and distress. No willing eye will so much as gaze upon it, curiosity will force the wonder elsewhere. Nothing is to be expected of a place that will not produce. There is emptiness here, a neutral medium of nothingness.