Here in the apocalypse I waste nothing: paper put to use as paper, kindling, bedding; pens put to use as pens, hairpins, picks, chisels. Nothing without three or more uses–a plethora of lives to support my own.
Here in the apocalypse I make my house in ruin, turn underground tunnels to roadways, improvise technology and systems of technology–the wreckage of the old recast in the shape of my necessity.
Once I tore down mountains, laid forests low for my muse, left waste wherever it fell. The land was sick of me long before I was sick of it. But there was no need for caution then. I had plenty, and cared to waste.
Now hollow cities stand as monuments to my disaster–now all is rubble, and now I reuse.