From the Diary of Mark Peterson, June 5, 11 A.F.

Dear God Damned Diary,

The only reason I'm writing this is because it's a better use of my time than drumming my fingers against a table somewhere, or drinking. 

Somehow, talking to the blind people, telling them about the eagle soaring in the blue sky overhead and passing in front of a fluffy white cloud is just depressing, seeming as this state hasn't seen a blue sky since Fallout, and I can barely remember what an eagle looks like myself. I'm afraid I got it wrong, for Chrissake. The clouds might not have been a lie, though. I haven't seen anything but clouds when I look up since I moved here. 

Hell, calling New York the Big Apple just seems ironic, since the last guy that tried to eat one of the apples around here coughed up blood and died an hour later. It's a miracle the fish is safe to eat, when it hadn't been for years before Fallout. I guess the world just traded one pollution for another.

In a way, the blind people got off easy. Ignorance is bliss, right? It's the deaf-mutes that have it tough. The people signing whatever to them, you know they aren't saying anything about the magpies singing, because one look around says it all: Even if there were magpies around, they got nothing to sing about. 

The clouds have been grey for the last two weeks now, and if you take a walk out at night, you can hear the fires burning. Sound carries different, now. You could hear someone scream all the way in Old Buffalo, but you'd think it came from just over that ridge.

Well, I guess I'll sign off now. I've got a long line of people to lie to, after all.

The End

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