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Those in my camp no longer knew what to do. We daydreamers became cloudy eyed when the sun came up, lost in the morning fog. I Don’t Know became our new mantra, when we could find the words to speak. Most often we just exchanged awkward glances, shifted our gaze to the cracked concrete, twisted the rubber bands we had collected on our wrists. Those of us who would have made better animals than humans left camp to bare their teeth in grins at others, climb up the dismantled skyscrapers, and fuck on the beach. Those of us who had been the visionaries became neurotic, tracking the minutest of details with exacting precision. They had no idea what they would do with this information. We were quickly unravelling, and we no longer knew what to do.

Of course, we couldn’t ask each other, for each was as lost as the next. We couldn’t ask anybody else, either, for they wouldn’t answer our confused language. We had forgotten how to communicate on the most basic level. Even those of us who would have made better animals. Their expressions were written with obsolete emotion, untranslatable, caged. But at least their hearts still thumped. At least when they lay down near us at night we could feel some kind of communion through make believe. But after awhile we began to resent them because we could not transfer their energy to ourselves. We were cracking up.

We Don't Know We Don't Know We Don't Know, we whispered.

Then at dawn, the fog spoke: Do This Will Do This Will Do This Will Do This Will Do.