The bloat and fall of Chinese Food. The Chinese Food Restaurant grew into Twelve Chinese Food Restaurants, One for each Borough and there are rumors of a Thirteenth Chinese Food Restaurant, a Secret Chinese Food Restaurant that will free Us All from the crippling Chinese Food Drought brought on by the the Unfortunate Paucity of Things Which Are Breaded And Fried, of Goopy Sauce, of Misunderstood Orders, of the Tang and Zip of the Downtown Train as it comes to a screeching stop over the Precipice of The Future.
The sidewalk cracks and vines come spilling up, spinning round and round looking for something to grasp onto, alien life that is also our own parents or grandparents or something. When the vines find the iron rails of the prison they begin to rip it apart, but they are slow, too slow to help the current crop of slaves but promising a future without prisons, hospitals, or houses; without man, woman, or child, except those who are able to adapt to changing vine-related circumstances and can abandon civilization in favor of hunting, gathering, fishing (which is like hunting,) stealing (which is like gathering,) and without fire and without complicated language. What will the vines leave for their once and future and cultivators? Something between grunts and unsplit infinitives, something between dying of exposure and living forever in an international space station, something between fists and missiles. The first couple generations of prisoners suffer from the taking hold of the vines, lose the little sunlight they had been rationed by the overseers, greening it to dim. The vines work, tearing it all down, dusting it to soil, isolating the poison isotopes, the power plants, the cancer particles, the dams, the bridges, the art, the parade grounds, the bottled spices, the candle light vigils, the velvet roped ruins. All crumbs. Slow and steady ends the race.